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By S. BARING-GOULD 


AtSVlSl/i^ 


-ir— iitnr-1 ni 1 1 ■■- - - ■ " . — . . > ... ■U-.-jj. ^ 

ieaside Library, Pocket Edition, Issued Tri-weekly. By subscription $50 per annum. 
1 1886 by Qeorge Munro— Entered at tbe Post Office at New York at second class rates-* Oct. S 


17 TO 27 VaNdeWater St 

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LADIES! 


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BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER; 

A FEW DAYS AMONG 

OUR SOUTHERN BRETHREN. 

BY HENRY M. FIELD, D.D., 

Authxyr of “ From, the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn'' “ From' Egypt 
to Japan'' “ On the Desert'' “ Among the Holy HillSy' and 
“ The Greek Islands,, and Turkey after the War." 


Of Doctor Field’s new book the New York Observer says: “ Doctor Field ha« 
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For Sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers. 

PRICE 25 CENTS. 


Bent by mail, postage free, on receipt of 25 cents. Address, 

GEORGE MUNRO, 

MUNRO’S PUBLISHING HOUSE, 

IT to Vaiidewater Street, New York*. 


LITTLE TUTENNY 


A TALE, 


By S.*^ARING.G0ULD. 




NEW YORK; 

OEOEGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandewatkr Street. 


L3 

S. BAKIJSTG-GOULD^S WORKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION): 


787 Court Royal 
878 Little Tu’penny 


PRICE. 
. 20 


10 


LITTLE TUTENNY. 


I. 

HOW SHE CAME BY HEE HAME. 

Amy one who knows the neighborhood of London knows 
the London clay. The hedges are heaped up of London 
clay, the ditches are dug in it, the fields that are plowed 
turn it up thick and tough and ill-favored, the house walls 
are built of it, burned into pale bricks, the roofs are tiled 
with it, the very swallows^ nests under the eaves are molded 
out of it, walk along the roads, and your boots are clogged 
with it, walk as gingerly as you will, you are bespattered 
with it. Here and there in the clay land intervene strips 
and islets of gravel, where the grass waves and trees and 
flowers luxuriate; but the clay land itself, though it will 
yield good corn and beans and peas, is not voluntarily lux- 
uriant. 

Within twenty or thirty miles of London occurs a tract 
of flat clay land, of fields of cabbages and beans and corn, 
surrounded by stunted thorn hedges, with here and there a 
brick and tile yard, some worked others deserted; the old 
brick-fields converted into ragged, sloppy depressions, into 
which is cast all the refuse from the neighborhood. There 
stand pools of stagnant water, fringed with coarse grass, 
and the banks sparsely producing doo, daisies, and yellow 
tansies. 

The road here runs straight as though made by the old 


8 


LITTLE TU^PEK^TY. 


The master quoted something about the sere and yel- 
low leaf/^ and expected the whole school to laugh at his 
cleverness. The girls called her Colman^’s mustard/^ 
because of the color in the name; and the boys^ in allusion 
to her first and last initials, ‘‘ Tuppenny Eate.^^ 

Finally, by that perversity which characterizes the pop- 
ular voice (who propounded that preposterous hoax, Vox 
populi vox Deif ^) — that voice which inevitably pro- 
nounces wrong, settled upon the nickname which bore the 
smallest resemblance to Triptolema Yellowleaf Eedfern. 
First sporadically appeared the designation, Little Tu^- 
penny,^^ and then, by degrees, it displaced every other 
nickname, and throughout tt e district, even in the Hall, 
she was known as Little Tuppenny. 

Mrs. Eedfern was not the wisest of women. She had 
picked up a smattering of grand words, and a love of grand 
things, when she was lady^s-maid at the Hall. She was 
superior to Dick, the keeper, in being able to use and 
flourish these grand words, and talk of grand things. She 
found it against the grain to descend to the care of a poor 
man^s cottage, and she kept Dick awake to the fact that, 
in marrying him, she had come down. She kept, indeed, 
her little parlor in splendor, with bugle mats, and anti- 
macassars, and glass flower-vases, and smartly bound books 
on the table, and glazed and gilt-framed chromo-litho- 
graphs on the walls; but her kitchen was most untidy, and 
the meals she prepared for her husband were uncomforta- 
ble, her pasties heavy, her meat and potatoes over or 
under-done. 

You see, Eichard, my good fellow, she argued; I 
never was, I thank Providence, so low as a kitchen-maid, 
and I never was a cook. If you^d wear long hair, and let 
me do it up, or have a fringe, I^d show what my powers 
are, and in what my genius lies. Wait! When Lema is 
grown up; won’t I only make a splash with her head.” . 

Trip, as her father called the little girl, was as pretty. 


LITTLE TU^’PENKY. 


9 


lively a child as ever was seen. She had very fair curly 
flaxen hair, and dark eyes and lashes. Her complexion 
was blooming. Her bright face sparkled with merriment. 

She had a happy spirit, was amiable, and engaging, and 
would have grown into a charming young woman had she 
not been spoiled by her father and mother, and by the notice 
taken of her by the people of the great house. King wood 
Hall. Every gentleman who went out shooting with her 
father had a word for her, and a laugh at her pretty co- 
quettish ways. But it was not her beauty alone which at- 
tracted notice, and helped to injure her; her name — that 
unfortunate name— had its share in harming her. When 
the young ladies at the Hall had visitors, and were at a loss 
how to entertain them, they would say, Come with us for 
a walk through the park to the keeper’s lodge. W’e will 
show you there a real rustic beauty, one quite out of the 
common for her loveliness, and still more out of the com- 
mon as to her name.-’^ 

‘‘We shall see what we shall see,'’^ said her mother. 
“ More strange things have happened than that a poor girl 
should marry a Bart. Lem a is not only as lovely as an 
angel, but she has had the advantage of my superior culti- 
vation, and her hair is done up like that of a lady. Why, 
my dearest Lema, the Poet Lorate writ some verses about 
a king — I forget his name exactly — who married a beggar- 
maid; and as sure as that you are not a beggar, so sure are 
you to catch something splendid. 

Then, as the keeper came in, she addressed him, “ Kich- 
ard (every one but his wife called him Dick), “ Triptolema 
shall not go to school any more; of that I am resolved. 
What do you think? The school-master dared, yes, dared 
to-day to shout out to'^Lema from his desk, ‘ Now, Little 
Tuppenny, no talking, please. What is the world coming 
to when our superiors give theirselves such airs?^^ 


10 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 


IL 

HOW SHE t’OUHD HEE WAY TO THE MILL. 

Ih the windmill on the clay land worked Joe Western, 
white with flour, white-faced, white-handed, and with his 
hair more fully powdered than any footman at the Hall. 

He did not, of course, live in the mill; he lived in a low 
brick house, one story high, roofed with tiles, a bow-shot 
off the mill. On the red roof, turned to a warm brown by 
age, grew patches of stonecrop of a golden yellow. The 
cottage had a bit of garden round it, surrounded by a ditch 
fringed with willows. The garden formed an oblong patch, 
apparently taken out from a field. This was, however, 
not the case. The garden and house of the miller were 
older by at least a hundred years than the field, which had 
been inclosed within the memory of man from what had 
been common. Long before the oldest man could remem- 
ber, or before the oldest man could tell of having heard by 
older men before him, there had been a windmill on Eing 
Moor, and the miller cottage had stood where it stands 
still. Eing Moor was moor no more — it was all inclosed, 
and cultivated, and drained. 

In the cottage Joe Western lived with his mother. His 
father was dead. He had fallen one day, when drunk, 
from the steps that led up into the mill, and had broken, 
as folk said, every bone in his body. This was an exag- 
geration. He had broken two or three, but one was enough 
to settle him — his skull, which struck a stone. 

When old Miller Western died Joe was aged nineteen. 
Weighty responsibilities rested on him. He had his mother 
to maintain, his own future to determine. He was advised 
by all his father^s friends to throw up the mill, as beyond 
the business powers of a beardless boy. How could a Ipd 
without a hair on his chin — with only down on his uppe 


LITTLE TU'PEKKY. 


11 


■ lip — conduct a mill? Joe was a silent fellow, very self- 
contained and reserved. He listened to advice, and did not 
i combat the reasonings of his advisers. What could he say? 
! N'othing but time could grow the necessary hair on his face 
which would capacitate him, in public estimation, for car- 
rying on the mill. He had broad shoulders; he put them 
under the burden without a word, and pursued his own 
; course. He kept on the mill. 

Joe had been brought up to the business, and he knew 
its ins-and-outs thoroughly; when his father had been tipsy, 
Joe had had to manage without him. Now he was dead, 
Joe would manage without him. Joe did not drink like 
the old man. That glass of ale which upset old Western 
steadied young Western. He did not become a teetotaller. 
He had his little cask of ale, at ninepence a gallon, very 
mild, for his mother, his man, and himself. He knew as 
well when he had enough as when he wanted something, 

J oe was so reserved, so cold, that the neighbors could not 
make him out. He sowed no wild oats. He sowed nothing 
but the sweat of his brow. The man who had served his 
father — a reserved fellow, handy and obliging, but not very 
sober — left him. 

The young cockerel is well enough, said he, but he 
donT crow. I canT get on with a chap who hasnT a word 
to say.^-’ 

A case of conscience arose in the neighborhood. It was 
doubted whether it were right to continue dealing with a 
miller without a beard on his chin; but partly from indo- 
lence and dislike of change, and partly because there was 
no other mill near, the old customers did not fulfill their 
threat of leaving, and Joe Western soon acquired fresh 
customers — he gave good measure. His hand did not go 
into the bag too often, or had not so big a grasp as that of 
his father. Moreover, he did not mix inferior grain with 
the good sent him. 

Mrs. Western was a quiet old woman, with a great love 


12 


LITTLE TU^PENKY. 


for her son, not unmixed with fear. Even she thought it 
was strange, unnatural, for one of Joe^s age to be so taci- 
turn, so resolved, so unsociable. . 

‘‘Asa moral and educated woman,^^ said Mrs. Kedfern, 
“ I don^t like to see a young man set his head so obstinate 
at making money, and not ready to contribute a brass far- 
den toward the amen-tees of life. Mrs. Eedfern had 
heard her young ladies speak of the amenities of life as that 
which softened, smoothed, and sweetened it. “ l^^ot but 
what he goes to church and puts on the outward form of 
religion and morality; but then every one knows what that 
is. ^Tis because the rector has his barley-meal from him 
for fattening his pigs.^^ 

The work of a miller is not a very regular work. Some 
days pass when there is not wind enough to carry round the 
sails. Then, may be, a breeze springs up just when he 
has no corn to be ground. It is a trying trade to the tem- 
per; but Joe Western's temper was never disturbed. When 
he ■ could do nothing at the mill, he found work in his 
garden. When there were both wind and corn he worked 
at the mill night as well as day, and far over the vast flat 
shone the star of light from the mill-door. 

The Miller of Dee cared for nobody, for nobody cared for 
him; the same may be said of Joe Western, the miller of 
Eing Moor. He seemed to live for nobody under the sun, 
except his mother, and he was not demonstrative in his 
affection toward her — dutiful, thoughtful, kind, but not 
gushing with love. Certainly, also, nobody cared much 
for him; he had no companions, no friends. He sought 
for none, and none came seeking his friendship. But the 
Miller of Dee was “ jolly, and millers ever since have 
been regarded as jolly men; and I confess that my own ex- 
perience of millers — and I am dearly fond of mills, wind- 
propelled and water-driven — is that, as a race, they are a 
jovial, genial set of men. But Joe was an exception; no 
element of jollity appeared in him. 


LITTLE TU^PEKNY. 


13 


; His mother shook her head, and sighed to her friends, 

Joe is a good lad, good as gold, without vice of any sort 
I in him. He^ll never marry, that^s certain, and a pity it is. 
He would nowhere find a young woman serious enough to 
suit him. They^re all giddy-pates nowadays, thinking of 
nothing but dress, putting all their wages on their backs. 
That would never do for Joe, he is all for saving. They 
like chattering; he hardly ever talks. They are all for 
laughing and singing and dancing. I never hear him shout 
or laugh, he scarce smiles, but goes as quietly at his work 
like a machine. If I were not his mother I should find it 
dull here with him, and I donT know what I should do 
without the pigs and the poultry. Did you ever before see 
any one who never talked except he^d got something to 
say? My Joe don’t, and that would not content a young 
woman. ” 

Sometimes the ladies from the Hall came to the windmill 
for much the same reason that took them to the keeper’s 
cottage, they brought visitors to it as a pastime. There 
was some amusement and much novelty in climbing the 
v/ide steps, holding by the hand-rail, to the upper revolving 
portion of the mill, in exploring the inside, in hearing the 
rush of the great wings, in feeling the quiver of the wooden 
fabric, its strain before a blast, the acceleration of the flight 
of the sails as the wind strengthened, in watching the 
grinding-stones, and the corn in the hopper slide down like 
sand in an hour-glass, in inhaling the sweet smell of the 
flour, in putting the hand into the warm bran that fell 
from the shifter, then in laughing at one another for the 
amount of white dust contracted by the clothes. The old 
miller was always agreeable and polite when the ladies paid 
their visits. He helped them up the ladd’er, he made them 
peep out of the little windows in the corn-chanaber, he ex- 
plained to them the working of the machinery, and the 
significance of the fly-pan at the foot of the steps. He 
opened a trap-door, and let them look down into the base- 


14 


LITTLE TU^PEI^KY. 


ment, where were the sacks and the weighers. Finally^ he 
had a clothes-brush with which to take off the ladies^ gowns 
and jackets the white flour that adhered. 

But Joe was not genial, like his father; he was civil, he 
made no objection to having his mill inspected, but he did 
Xiot accompany his visitors about it, he cut no little jokes, 
lavished no compliments, expressed no delight in the visit, 
and finally, produced no black clothes-brush. 

So the visits from the Hall became less frequent than 
they had been; but Joe^s manner was not wholly account- 
able for this — one of the young ladies was married, another 
was engaged. 

One day, when a fresh north-west breeze was blowing, 
and the white clouds were flying over the sky, the mill 
wings were whirling with great vigor, and the wind rushed 
off them in spouts of cold air. 

Happening to go to the mill door Joe was surprised and 
startled to see a little figure of a girl turn out of the road, 
and come over the short grass toward the mill, with the 
eyes raised to the sails. The child came on unconscious of 
danger, unaware of the danger of approaching and coming 
within the sweep of those mighty revolving wings. 

Joe called to warn the child off; but she either did not 
hear, or disregarded the monition. 

Then, with a frown and an exclamation of impatience, 
Joe ran down the steps, strode over the turf, caught the 
child by the arm, and roughly swung it aside. 

What are you about here?^^ he asked. You might 
have been killed. 

The child was Triptolema Yellowleaf Eedfern. 

‘^I^m doing no harni,^^ she said, undauntedly. ‘‘I'm 
not going to eat the mill.^^ 

“ The mill was nigh on grinding you.^^ 

She stared at him. 

What a lovely child she was, with those large dark eyes 
and that abundant fair hair! 


LITTLE TU^PEilNY. 


15 


You be off, and trespass here no riiore,^^ he said, 
j I want- a she said; I am going up on one of 
I those great wings. Stop them for me to climb on to one. 

It was now Joe^s place to stand and stare. The child^s 
bright eyes were full of eagerness, the cheeks were flushed, 
and her hair, almost white in the sun, blew about her head 
in the wind like cotton-grass. 

You little donkey,^^ was all he said, go.^^ 

Then he moved to go back to the mill. 

^‘1 am going to fly/^she said, resolutely, ‘‘I will go 
up.^^ 

Joe considered a moment, then he went into the weigh- 
ing-house under the mill, and brought out a whip. Do 
you see this?^^ 

Yes.^^ 

What do I use it for?^^ 

‘ ^ Driving donkeys. ^ 

' Very well, Ifll use it on you if you donT go.^^ 

I^m not a donkey — Dm an angel, mother says so, and 
angels fly. I am going to fly. ^ ^ 

She was composed, well assured he would not strike her. 
She was still looking at the sails. 

They go so fast,'’^ she said. It would be fun going 
up on them almost into heaven; anyhow higher than the 
top of yon mill. Fve often seen them, but never been so 
^close before. I donT care how high 1 go, I don^t care how 
fast I go, so long as I go up.^^ 

If you go up down you come again. 

Yes, but again up I should go. 

It was not possible to convince the child. Joe could not 
leave the mill longer, the bell was tangling to tell that the 
hopper was empty. He dare not let her remain where she 
was lest she should step where the revolving wings might 
strike her; and one touch of those mighty rushing arms 
would beat the Ifttle bounding, happy, eager life out of her. 
He had in his pocket a piece of stout twine. Without 


16 


LITTLE TU^PEKNY. 


another word he drew her to the steps, bound her hands 
together at the wrists, and fastened her firmly to the rail. 
Then, without speaking, but with a grim look out of his 
gray eyes, and frown and a shake of the head, he went up 
the stairs. 

After awhile he returned. He had done what was neces- 
sary for a while, and resolved to release the girl. He had 
given her a lesson, and he hoped she would profit by it, and 
never again come near the mill. 

She was not crying. She was sitting on the step with her 
hands over her head, fast to the rail, and her face peering 
between her arms at the revolving sails. 

‘‘How, then,^^ said Joe Western, “do you see? It is 
foolery. If you held to the bar of a sail as it went up you^d 
be flung head over heels coming down, let go, and be dashed 
to pieces. Is that sense 

“ I see that.^^ 

“Well; are you satisfied? Go. 

He untied her hands. 

“ Fm not satisfied yet. I must think; perhaps yet it 
may be done. 

“ How so?^^ sneeringly. 

“ I don^t know. I must think. 

Then she ran a little way, turned, courtesied with out- 
spread skirts, laughed, and said, “ Though you look cross, 
you are too floury to be bad. I forgive you, dull Joe 
Miller."" 


III. 

HOW SHE LEAENED ABOUT THE FLY-WHEEL. 

Teip, as her father called her, Lema, as she was called 
by her mother, was wayward and headstrong. Having 
taken a notion into her little brain, that little brain worked 
till she had carried the notion into action. She was not in 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 


17 


the least cast down by the rebuffs she had received, not 
discouraged in her idea. In her opinion that was possible 
which was not possible in the opinion of the miller. She 
would show him that she had a better head then he, that 
her opinion was the best. 

She lay awake at night thinking of the windmill, and 
the new kind of fun that was to be got out of it. What 
was a swing between trees to a soar on the wings of the 
wind, with the roar of the wind about her? What strength 
there was in those mighty arms, able to uphold and give an 
aerial spin to a whole school of children, and not feel their 
weight! 

Trip was shrewd enough to see the difficulty pointed out 
by the miller. She would be reversed if she went down, 
not only would her head be downward, but her hands; her 
wrists would be twisted. Would it be possible for her, if 
she went up, holding to one rib, at the top so to alter her 
hold as to reverse her position and come down upright? 
Then, again, there would be the necessity for a rapid change 
before beginning another revolution — a change, in fact, at 
every half revolution. No — this was not possible. Not 
only would, there be the difficulty, but there would also be 
the danger of becoming giddy and letting go. Trip saw 
that, once launched, she could not stop when she liked, she 
must go on till the mill wings ceased to turn. 

All at once an idea occurred to her, and she laughed out 
in bed. Satisfied that she had reached the solution of her 
difficulty, she went to sleep. 

Next day Joe Western, to his annoyance, found, on re- 
turning from his dinner, that the little girl was at the gate 
observing the mill attentively. 

He would have passed her without a word, but Trip was 
curious about the parts of the mill, and she caught the 
lappet of his coat and held him. 

He turned round to drive her away. 

How dusty you are, Joe Miller,’^ she said; a white 


18 


LITTLE TU^PENKY. 


cloud comes out of you. I want you to tell me something. 
Why has the mill got a tail?^*' 

‘‘A tail? 

Yes; that thing/^ She pointed to the fly-wheel at the 
bottom of the steps, at the opposite side to the wings. 

‘‘ That,^^ said he, ‘‘ turns the mill about. 

How does it turn it about? It is a wee, wee wheel. 

Little things sometimes turn very big things about; 
that is something you will have to learn. 

I am a very little thing, and you very big. Could I 
turn you?^^ 

A grim half smile came on his face, then a curl of the 
lip. He vouchsafed her no other answer. 

‘‘I see,^^ she said, that sometimes the wings of the 
mill point north, sometimes south, sometimes east, and 
sometimes west. Does that little funny wheel of wings do 
all that?^^ 

Yes. The whole upper part of the mill turns on the 
basement. That little fan- wheel catches the air, and, like 
the rudder of a ship, or the tail of a fish, gives the head its 
direction.^’ 

Trip shook her head. It is wonderful. That I canT 
understand. 

There are other wonderful things past your understand- 
ing,^^ said the miller, glumly, which you will come to 
know.^^ 

And you, too, Joe Miller?^^ with raised eyebrows and a 
cunning look — she was tliinking of her contemplated sail. 

‘‘ And I, too, possibly. 

Can you stop the mill when you like?^^ 

^^Yes.^^ 

And make it go on when you hke?^^ 

‘ ^ When there is wind. 

May I go upstairs and see the inside of the mill?^^ 

Joe pulled a face of dissatisfaction, shrugged his shoul- 
ders, and grunted. 


LITTLE TU^PEKNY. 


19 


Trip took the grunt as one of acquiescence^ and ran be- 
side him as he strode to the mill. 

Look/^ she said, is that a magic circle in the grass?^^ 

‘‘ It is the line traced by the wheel as the mill revolves/^ 

She caught his hand and hopped up the steps at his side. 

See/^ he said, the wind is shifting a point, and the 
tail, as you call it, is adjusting the face of the mill to the 
new direction of the wind. 

He had never given so full an explanation to the ladies 
of the Hall; indeed, he had explained nothing to them. 
But they had come, as he knew, merely to pass time, and 
this fair, pretty little creature who clung to his hand was 
really eager to know, and thought about his explanations. 

He took her over the whole of the mill; he showed her 
everything. He described all the purposes and workings 
of every part of the mechanism. Her intelligence pleased 
and encouraged him. She insisted on climbing to the very 
top, up the ladder to where the roof is steep, and she could 
peep out of the little window of the corn-chamber. 

Every windmill consists of two parts — the stationary 
basement, with a tent-like, circular roof, and the mill 
proper, which is movable, and revolves over this roof. The 
upper portion has three stages; that highest of all, under 
the roof — the attic — is the corn-chamber. To it the sacks 
are hauled up; below that is the story where are the grind- 
ing-stones. Below that again is the flour-room, where the 
flour runs down and is sifted by the vibratory shifter, or in 
a drum of iron gauze, in which are revolving brushes in 
bins. Below, in the basement, is the weighing-machine, 
and there also are sacks, let down from the flour-room 
through traps in the roof. 

Trip was delighted when she reached the corn-chamber. 
The mill creaked and swayed with the stress of wind, as 
well as quivered with the rotation of the grinding-stones. 

The air here is fresher, she said, ‘^the light is 
brighter, the smell of the bean-fields is sweeter than below. 


20 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 


Oh, why can we not fly? Why are we not like those swal- 
lows? We can soar aloft in some ways, why can not we 
soar aloft in others?^^ 

How, child, in some ways?^^ 

Have not the people at the Hall — the Tottenhams — 
flown? Mother says that old Squire Tottenham trundled 
his barrow about the streets of London, and had not a half 
crown when he began life. Then he flapped his wings a 
little and got a bit up, and so he flew up and up, from half 
a crown to half a sovereign, from half a sovereign to fifty 
pounds, from that to a hundred — a thousand — to half a 
million. He began with a barrow, then he hopped to a lit- 
tle stall, thence to a shop, so to a great sort of store in Ox- 
ford Street — where all the quality go to buy, and thence he 
spread his wings and flew to Ringwood Hall. Why, he 
who at one time eat with his fingers out of an old oyster- 
shell now dines off silver plate, and has tons of silver 
spoons and forks, as much as any duke, and he who drank 
at a tap at a street corner now has the choicest wines! Is 
not that flying? Is not that a soar higher, better than the 
flight of any lark? The squire’s daughters would have 
been poor girls like me if their father had not found his 
wings. He has carried them up and made them proper 
ladies, as good as any in the land. Why should not I fly? 
Mother says that I must and ought, and, Joe Miller, I will 
fly!” 

The young miller, seated on the edge of a corn-box, bent 
under the low, sloping roof, looked with astonishment and 
grim amusement at the girl, who sat in the middle, with the 
full light and air pouring in on her through the open win- 
dow. She seemed like a lovely presiding fairy. 

Can you see London from here?” she asked, 

‘‘Yes,” he replied; “that is— a great bank of dark 
smoke. That black wall of smoke is London. By night 
you see a glare half-way up the sky.'” 

“ Is it pretty?” 


LITTLE TU^PEraY. 


21 


How can it be — smoke and fire?^^ 

“ I believe myself/'’ said Trip^ thoughtfully, it is only 
in London that wings to fly with can be got. The squire 
found his wings there, and they carried him from his bar- 
row to the Park. If I canT get wings elsewhere, I shall go 
to London for them. 

Joe looked steadily at her, his face became grave, and he 
said, I beg you, say nothing more of flying. 

But I think it all the same.^^ 

A. slight feeling of uneasiness crept over Joe; why, he 
did not stop to consider. 

Come/^ he said; you have been long enough up here. 
Slip down the ladder. I will hold your hand and follow 
you. 

‘‘ I like being up here. And, oh, at tlie end of the sail 
it must be more airy and bright than here, just as much as 
this is airier and brighter than below. 

Go down. 

He was curt with her during the remainder of her stay 
in the mill. She lingered about, and he had to insist on 
her leaving. He saw her to the foot of the steps. They 
were wide apart, and he feared, or professed to fear, that 
the delicate little feet might slip between them, and she 
might fall and be hurt. 

When they reached the bottom he held her hand, and 
said roughly, ‘‘ DonT think of it — not even think of it.'’^ 
Think of what, Joe Miller?^^ 

Of what you said* — of flying.'’^ 

Why notr’ 

^‘Because — because, he spoke angrily, donT like 
it. 

Then she laughed merrily. 

And pray. Dusty Joe, what is that to me? You donT 
like it — I do.^^ 

She held his hand with both of hers, three Angers in one 
hand, two in the other, and put her feet together toward 


22 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 


him, and leaned back, staying herself by his hand, and 
looking roguishly into his gray eyes. 

How lovely she was, how truly a little witch, with that 
shining loose pale hair floating about her head, and those 
talking eyes, and pouting lips, and twinkling smiles in the 
corners! 

Joer^ 

‘‘ Well— wnat?^^ 

‘^Joe!^^ 

‘‘ I canH stay, let go my hand.^ 

JoeP^ 

Hands off, I^m a busy man.^^ 

I think a great deal, Joe, of the little wee-wee fly- 
wheel moving the huge lumbering mill about, with all its 
grinding-stones, and sacks of corn, and machinery. Hon^t 
you see, Joe Miller, Fm like that little fan-wheel, and I^m 
turning you round and round just as I will."^^ 

Then she let go, and ran laughing and singing, light as 
a feather, away. 

And Joe, the heavy, lumbering, broad-shouldered young 
man stood staring, looking after her, and wondering what 
she meant. 


IV. 

HOW SHE GOT A WHISTLE. 

Theee days after this visit to the mill Trip was again at 
the gate looking at it. The wings were stationary, there 
was absolutely no wind. There was no work for the miller 
in the mill. Trip knew this, and knew that now her time 
had come for observing and measuring herself by the skele- 
ton sails. So she opened the gate and went in, boldly 
crossed the magic circle, and stepped up to the wings. The 
clog was on. Even had a breeze blown they would have 
only creaked and heaved a little, but would not have swung 
about. Moreover, the sails were reefed. The air, if it 


LITTLE TU^PEIIN-Y. 


.23 


stirred^ would pass through the wings. They were mere 
frames. 

As Trip stood studying them Joe perceived her. He 
was working in his garden. He was bent over his work, 
hoeing or banking-up potatoes. He saw her from under 
the willows before they broke into a spray of red and yellow 
osier. He watched her figure for some time as she walked 
about the wing nearest the ground and climbed on to the 
first rib. 

Then he pshawed! and growled out a word of annoyance. 
That child was becoming a nuisance. She would infest the 
mill like a mouse. She would interfere with his work. 
She would run into danger. She must be forced to leave 
him in peace. 

So he stood up, and walked to the osier fringe, parted 
the glossy stems, anil called Little Tu^penny!^^ 

She did not seem to hear him. 

I say — Twopenny Eate!^^ 

No notice. 

Hey, there! Colman^s Mustard !^^ 

She turned away toward the steps without seeming to 
-hear him. 

Miss Triptolema Yellowleaf Eedfern. 

She was round at once, and came bounding over the turf, 
with outspread arms, like a skimming bird, her fair hair 
blown back as she ran. Yes, Mr. Western. 

Come here,^^ he called. Not that way. You can 
not jump the ditch. Bound the gate in the road.^^ 

Hold out your arm.^^ 

She leaped the moat; but if he had not caught her she 
would have slipped back, repelled by the spring-like willow 
rods, and fallen into the water. 

He drew her through the bushes. She was laughing, 
rosy, smiling. 

What are you doing here, Joe?^^ she asked. 


24 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 


Working, Miss Triptolema/^ 

Working! Oh, that is too bad. The day is fine; there 
is no wind. You should take a holiday. 

I never have holidays. 

‘‘ I intend to have nothing else.^^ 

Why are you not at school?^^ asked the miller. 

‘^Because I have left school. The master called me 
names, so mother has taken me away.*^^ 

Names— 

‘‘Yes; he must learn a lesson. He will lose a penny a 
week. You also, I must teach you a lesson; you also called 
me names. 

“ The best lesson will be to stay away. You must not 
come here any more bothering me.^^ 

“ Do those white butterflies bother you?^^ asked Trip^ 
pointing to a pair fluttering over the cabbages. 

“ Do they not? They are my greatest plague. They 
eat out the very hearts of my plants. 

“ Order them away. They will not go. It is their nat- 
ure to dance about your garden. You may order me away; 
but I wonT go. I shall play about you; and if I only saw 
my way to eat out your heart, Joe — I^d do it, and laugh to 
be able to torment you!^^ 

“ There, said the miller; “ I have no time to chatter 
with you. All I say is, it is a pity. You ought to be at 
school. Idleness leads to mischief. 

He resumed his mattock. She seated herself on a rail, 
surveying her feet, and then began to sing. She had a 
sweet, sparkling voice. Her notes were like bits of glass. 

“ Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, I cry! 

Full and fair ones, come and buy; 

If so be you ask me. Where 
They do grow, I answer — There. 

Where the sunbeams sweetly smile, 

There’s the land of Cherry Isle.” 


LITTLE TU'PEUKT. 


25 


Then the miller threw down his mattock and went in- 
doors, and presently came out with a piece of bread and 
a plate on which was a slice of honey-comb. 

There/ ^ said he, sweeten your red^ripe cherries with 
that, and go along with you.^^ 

She took the honey gleefully, and, sitting on the rail with 
her knees together and the plate resting on her lap, was 
still for awhile, eating bread and honey. 

Joe had a range of bee-hives in his garden, and he was a 
famous bee-master. Now on this lovely day the bees were 
about humming and gathering their sweet food. The sun 
shone warmly over that little garden, turning out the fresh, 
healthy scent of the upturned earth. The bank of thyme, 
and mint, and marjoram poured forth fragrance. The 
scarlet-runners were in bloom; so were the tall British 
Queen peas, and the bees were busy in the corollas of these 
flowers. 

Joe worked on, but every now and then, with furtive 
glance, looked at the little girl, perched as a ring-ousel on 
the rail, now intent on her bread and honey. Then he 
turned round, with his back to her; the sight of her inter- 
fered with his diligence. 

All at once he was startled. She was before him. She 
had eaten the bread, flnished all the honey, and she danced 
up to him on tiptoe, singing. 


“ Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, I cry! 
Full and fair ones, come and buy; 
If so be you ask me. Where 
They do grow, I answer — There.” 


She held up her red lips to him. 

You good old Joe. Thanks for the honey. You shall 
have a kiss.^^ 

He drew up his full height, and stood back. 

No, little woman, they are too sweet — all honey. 

She tossed her pretty head, pouted, and turned away. 


26 


LITTLE TU^PEKNY. 


If you won^t have my cherries when offered, you shall 
not have them when you ask/^ 

you want to repay me/^ said Joe, go back to 
school, and you shall have as much of my honey-comb at 
any time as you like/^ 

May her good-humor was back again. 1^11 ask 
mother. 

And now,^^ said Joe, look here. Ill give those lit- 
tle red lips something else to do than eat honey and offer 
kisses. As you sat on the rail there I thought you a httle 
bird, and a little bird must pipe. 

He took out his pocket-knife and went to the edge of 
the dike, among the osiers. 

Trip after him. 

What are you going to do?^^ 

I will show you. Exercise patience. 

He seated himself on the bank, and she by him, watch- 
ing his hands. In the water, on the surface, were count- 
less white, yellow- centered stars — the flowers of the water- 
plantain, dense as the stars in the winter night-sky. By 
the side was a grove of glossy-leaved stone-cress, with its 
blue flowers. A rat flopped into the dike. There were 
plenty of them about, and they had runs through the grass 
from all sides to the mill. Myriads of tadpoles darted. 

Joe shortened and peeled an osier, and snicked it. Pres- 
ently a whistle was completed, very clean, smooth, and 
neat. 

‘‘ Will this last long?’^ asked Trip. 

‘‘ As long as you like to keep it.^ 

And, if I whistle on it, will you come to me?^^ 

‘‘ If you need me at any time — really need me — I will 
come un whistled for. If you think of flying, I will not 
come, even if you do whistle/^ 


LITTLE TU^PEJINY. 


27 


V. 


HOW SHE MADE HEE EIEST PLIGHT. 

Teip watched the mill after this a good deal; without 
discussing her plan with any one, it became matured in her 
brain. Fly she would, and that not metaphorically, like 
the Tottenhams, from poverty to wealth, from a keeper^’s 
cottage to a king’s palace, like the beggar-maid — but bodily 
also, on the sails of the mill. She was, as already said, a 
shrewd girl, and she saw that she must not allow the miller 
to suspect she was still set on her plan. Consequently, she 
observed her opportunity on the sly. 

She saw that the mill was stopped when Joe went to his 
dinner, or when he was adjusting the stones, without the 
sails being furled. The drag was put on, and the wings 
brought to a stop. Then, when Joe returned to his work, 
or when the stones were ready, the clog was raised, and 
the arms began again to revolve. This would be her occa- 
sion, and for this she watched and waited. 

Her scheme was as follows. She had a strong skipping- 
rope with white handles, striped yellow, red, and blue. 
The cord passed through these handles, and was secured 
by a knot at each end. The cord was new and good, the 
handles solid. She could trust her weight to the cord; it 
would not break, however severely tested by her. 

For several days Trip waited behind a thorn hedge in the 
bean-field, inhaling the exquisite sweetness 'of the fiowers. 
I can never pass a bean-field without recalling the words 
of old Isaac: The smell of my son is as the smell of a 
field that the Lord hath blessed.” 

There is no sweetness like the fragrance exhaled by 
beans — no, not that of roses, heliotropes, orange fiowers. 


28 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 


Trip sat behind the hedge. In the shallow ditch grew 
abundant mint, in gray flower, and here and there shot up 
the pink spires of the willow herb. When she crushed the 
mint it exhaled scent, but only near the bruised leaves and 
stalk, not sufficient to mingle with and overcome the rich, 
delicate odor of the beans. 

Trip peered through the thorns at the mill, whose sails 
were whirling, and the whir came to her through the 
thorns. Now she saw the miller in his white jacket and 
cap, with his white-dusted face at the door, calling to the 
boy, and the boy answered, and brought a donkey to the 
foot of the mill. 

The donkey was gray — just the color of the mint-blos- 
som — the dust of the flour seemed to have got into the 
hairs of a brown ass and turned it gray; but under the 
belly it was white, as if it had rolled in meal. Joe Western 
and his man heaved sacks of flour on to the back of Neddy, 
and the boy sprung up behind, sitting far back on the 
crupper, and shouted gee-up! and whacked the ass, and a 
cloud of flour came from his coat as from the lappet of 
Joel’s coat when Trip had slapped it. 

‘‘Mind, Tom,^^ called Joe; “one sack is barley meal 
for the parson^ s pig.'’^ 

“ Ah,'’^ thought Trip, “ that is why Joe goes to church, 
to keep the rector^ s custom. I call that mean. I 
shouldnT have believed it of him; but that mother said it 
— I mean mamma. 

Mrs. Kedfern had enjoined on her daughter not to call 
her “ mother,'’^ which she said was “ vulgar, but “ mam- 
ma.'" Quality folk said “mother." In all the 

situations in which she had been she had never once met 
with, and been in service with, a mother, only with mam- 
mas. 

“ Mam-ma," ' said Trip; “ that is like a lamb bleating. " 

“ Lema, my dear," answered Mrs. Eedfern; “lamb or 
no lamb matters nothing. It is d-stingier." 


LITTLE TU^PEI![KY. 


29 


The answer cut short objection — clinched the matter. It 
was an argument final and irrepressible. 

Mr. Kedfern, however, stubbornly refused to be called 

I ‘‘papa.^^ 

‘‘I ainT one in corduroys and gaiters/'’ he reasoned. 

Ihn father, if you like. Trip; and if you donT like me 
‘ on my own terms, get a papa elsewhere; but he sha^nT be 
I. Be what is more, donT speak of your mother to me as 
a mamma. 

So Trip got into the way of employing both terms. 

How the bees swarmed about the bean-flowers! — Joe^s 
bees, no doubt — about those pretty white flowers dappled 
black. Mrs. Western boasted that her son paid his rent 
out of the honey his hives contained. The bees throve near 
the bean-fields, and the honey they stored carried the 
sweetness of the beans into the cells and to the tables of 
those who eat it. A great bumble-bee, clothed in black 
fur, with orange plush trimmings, too warmly dressed for 
so hot a day, was trying to force herself into a bean-flower 
which was too narrow to admit her. She made a dive, 
kicking out with her black legs behind, then came back 
and buzzed about the flowers grumbling, but, reluctant to 
give up her attempt, then alighted and rammed her head 
in again. Trip laughed to see her; the bee, as if offended, 
then flew ofl. 

Presently Joe and the man stopped the mill. It was 
noon. Trip saw Joe stand on the steps at the mill door, 
with his silver watch in his hand, a big watch that had be- 
longed to his father. Then he signefl. to his man to follow, 
and they walked toward the cottaj^Af 

Singularly enough, when Joe^s father had fallen off the 
steps and broken his head and his arm and collar-bone and 
leg, he had not broken his watch, no — not even cracked the 
glass. The watch went on composedly ticking, doing its 
regular work in the miller ^s pocket, when he lay a shat- 
tered, unconscious heap at the foot of the mill. The 


30 


LITTLE TU^PEKKY. 


mechanism of the miller ^s life stopped, that of the watch 
went on, for Joe wound it up that same evening, and it 
had not since been allowed to run down. 

People, eager to find fault, thought Joe^s conduct 
eminently heartless, and there was much talk about it. 
Some even said they would make this an occasion of with- 
drawing their custom: ^^for,^*^ they argued, ‘‘what good 
can there be in a chap who would wind up his father^ s 
watch after he was killed, without first letting it run- 
down?^^ 

It is often the case that widespread prejudices against 
certain individuals rest on no better grounds. 

Mrs. Kedfern had been emphatic in her condemnation; 
she had recurred to the circumstance. 

“ I never heard of such a thing in polite society, she 
said, “ but he knows no better. Still, it argues a natural 
viciousness, for which there can be no excuse. ^ 

Now when Triptolema saw the silver watch in the 
miller ^s hand, she recalled what her mother had said. The 
connection of ideas between the watch and vice was not 
clear to her; still she thought her mother an oracle in 
ethics, from whom it was heresy to differ. 

“ There is,^^ observed Triptolema to the beans, “ a deal 
of wickedness in the world. If it weren’t for his honey 
and the mill, I’d never again speak to Joe.” 

The wind gently breathed over the field and swayed the 
heads of the beans, and bowed the honey-gathering bees — 
Joe’s bees — in their blossoms, as though the sweet field 
agreed with Trip ahovi^^the condition of the world. On the 
horizon was a broad belt of smoke, rarely dispersed. 
There was London. Perhaps the wickedness was there as 
well as in the mill, and there in an aggravated form. 
Trip’s opportunity had come. 

The space about the mill was clear. She left the bean- 
field, entered the gate, and crossed the magic circle traced 


LITTLE TU^PEl^KY. 


31 


by the wheel of the fan that turns the mill. Then she 
cautiously approached the stationary wings^ which were 
now full fledged, the canvas strained over them to the top- 
most. Only a light wind was stirring that day, and every 
breath had to be caught and utilized; not a reef was taken 
in. 

Trip stood behind the sail that rose upright from the 
ground, screened by it from observation by any one in the 
road, in the garden, or cottage. The sail did not, of 
course, quite reach the surface. She caught the cross-bar 
and scrambled on to the wing. It had a main beam of 
great strength, and two sides; across were the strips of 
wood, or splines, that held the canvas from bulging in, 
and to which it could be reefed. The girl climbed to the 
second of these ribs and fastened the ends of her skipping- 
rope to it; she passed the handles behind the main beam, 
and drew them through and firmly knotted them. Then 
she stood up, with her feet in the loop, and jumped and 
stamped, and the knots held securely. 

'Now/’ said she, I have managed famously. When 
the sail goes up I shall be sitting as in a swing, with my 
head up; then when it goes down I shall descend in the 
same way, head up. I have only to hold fast by the ropes 
of my swing, and mind not touch the splines. Whatever 
will Joe Miller say when he sees that my opinion is better 
than his? After that, heTl iiever dare to call me vulgar 
names. Little Tuppenny, indeed 

If Miss Triptolema had discovered this plan unassisted, 
she would have shown remarkable ingenuity. But she had 
not been unprompted. The preceding year she had at- 
tended a fair with her mother, where she had seen a whirli- 
gig, in which those who paid a penny were given a revolu- 
tion in seats that were swung on pivots to the arms of a 
vast wheel planted vertically. Consequently, Trip was 
simply applying to the mill-sails a principle she had seen 
in operation at the fair. 


32 


LITTLE TU^’PENKY. 


Nevertheless, it is not every one who can apply a prin- 
ciple. She must not be denied some credit for what she 
did. 

Having completed her preparations. Trip sat patiently 
in her swing waiting till the miller and his man returned 
from their dinner, nothing doubting that they would set 
the mill a-going without observing her. 

It was as she expected. The man came first, Joe re- 
maining at the house to give his mother some change to 
pay a bill to the carrier for some crates. 

The man started the mill without casting a look at the 
sails. The wind caught, strained the canvas; the wood- 
work cracked, heaved ; and then the wings began to move. 

Trip thought that the grass, the hedges were running 
away under her feet. Her first sensation was one of alarm, 
and she uttered a slight exclamation; but this sensation 
passed rapidly, and was followed by great elation of spirits 
as the strong beam carried her up. Her weight was of no 
more account than that of a fly on a carriage-wheel. She 
did not feel the breeze, because she sat inside screened by 
the canvas, but a cold rush of air came down on her head, 
caused by the rapid upward sweep and displacement. 

It would have been pleasanter, if possible, to have sat 
outside. She would have seen more of the world; the 
great bulk of the mill would not have intervened between 
her and the prospect. But that was not possible. Asa 
babe crows when swung into the air by the stout arms of 
father or mother, so did Trip exclaim with exultation as 
she was carried aloft. She had no fear of the beam giving 
way — of her swing snapping. She saw the swallows dash- 
ing about her, careless of the sails, twittering and scream- 
ing, and quite indifferent to her presence. She saw away 
over the bean-field, over the park trees — she saw the roof, 
the chimneys of the Hall — she saw what she had never 
seen before, the well in the roof into which water was 
pumped to supply the house. She saw over the house — 


LITTLE TU^’PEHJSTY. 


33 


away, away, away — to the blue, gleaming river, with 
specks on it. 

She saw nearer a field and a man in it working — no^ — it 
was not a man, it was a scarecrow. There were pieces of 
tin tied to a string, dickering and dickering in the air and 
sun. She could not hear the chck — she could see the flash. 

Yonder was the house of the old woman who took in the 
washing for the Hall. What a fluttering of white there 
was on the lines, and oh! one blazing red petticoat, like a 
tulip. 

The beams labored, groaned; the canvas flapped; Trip 
had reached the highest point of all, she looked over the 
roof of the mill. 

Now, down, down, she began to go; and as she sunk a 
sensation of sinking made itself felt in her heart. Now 
only did she fear lest her rope should give way, lest the 
knots should relax. She came down faster than she went 
up; the river, the house, the trees, the bean-field went to- 
gether like a pack of cards. There was a swimming in her 
head. When she reached the ground she would have leaped 
down, had she dared, but she knew such a leap would lead 
to broken bones and, perhaps, death. 

Up — up — up again. The panorama, fan-like, unfolded 
once more before her. Again that horrible scarecrow, with 
the straw sticking out of the crown of a battered hat, again 
the blinking of the tin sherds. Her hands clung to the, 
ropes quivering. Her heart fluttered; fear began to take 
possession of her, rising like a tide. Tears rushed into her 
eyes. She could see nothing more, except the black cloud 
that hung over the metropolis. She cried, but her cries 
were drowned by the creaking of the sails, or lost among 
the screams of the swallows. She felt no part of her but 
her hands, as though she were all hand, nothing but hand 
clutching at the rope. Every other sensation went away 
hke a dissolving view, and nothing came in its place. An 
overpowering dread of falling took possession of her, and 


34 


LITTLE TU^PEKNY. 


with the dread a feeling that she must throw herself out of 
her seat. Only her will held her in — her will concentrated 
in the muscles of her hands — she was perfectly conscious 
of what the result would be should she fall — fall she must 
— fall she would when swung to the very apogee above the 
gable of the mill — fall and become a shattered heap like 
the old miller, Joe^s father. 

The horror became sickening. The air rushed upward 
now, blew her hair above her ears and was cold under her 
chin; an infinite abyss opened under her, her life was 
pouring out of the palms of her hands and the soles of her 
feet, and her heart had detached itself from her ribs, and 
was sinking faster than her body. A spasmodic convulsion 
came over her arms, and her hands relaxed. 

Then, as her senses were leaving her, she was caught, 
and felt strong arms round her, and saw a white face like 
the moon in daylight above her, and was aware of a smell 
of flour. She remembered no more. 

When Trip came to herself she was lying on the grass, 
and Joe Western, with a bowl, was sprinkling water on 
her face. 

“ Oh, Joe Miller, Fve been up!^^ 

‘‘Little Tu^penny,^^ she heard him say; “let this be 
your last attempt at flying. 

That evening his mother said to him, “Joe, whatever 
-ails you? How your hand shakes. What is it? It shakes 
like the inking-box.'^'^* 

“ Fve had a scare, mother, he replied; but gave no ex- 
planation. 

Afterward, through the man, she heard how he had seen 
the child attached to the sail, how he had put on the drag, 
and stopped the mill, and how he had caught her before 
she fell. 

* The “ inking-box ” is a piece of wood that regulates the inflow 
of the corn between the stones; it is set in motion by an iron spindle 
that is called the “ damsel. ” 


LITTLE TU^PENKY. 


35 


I dare say that is what made him shake so/^ said the 
. widow. Why his hand shook like the inking-box/^ 

Ah!^^ answered the man, it was a sort of a damsel 
that made it shake/ ^ 


VI. 

OF A]Sr ANSWER SHE GOT. 

My dear Lema/^ said Mrs. Eedfern, have moved 
in the best society, and I know that after a service has been 
done it is a duty to make a complimentary call. The 
Westerns are a long way below us — below you and me, any- 
how: nevertheless, we must not forget to thank them. Put 
on your smartest Sunday frock, never mind changing any- 
thing else. 1^11 give my fringe a curl, and put on my seal- 
skin jacket, and go with you.^^ 

But, mamma, it is too hot a day for a sealskin. 

My dear, it is never too hot to wear one^s best and most 
becoming things. I^d walk into a burning, fiery furnace 
in my sealskin — for the keeping up of appearances.^^ 

Is it real sealskin, mamma? 

It is very like a real one,^^ answered Mrs. Eedfern. 

It cost a lot of money, which we shall save on your 
schoolpence now that you are not going to school again. 
How the school-master could so demean himself as to call 
you vulgar names I can not think; I couldnT be vulgar, 
not if you were to lace me so tight that I parted in the mid- 
dle.’^ 

The braid, mamma, is hanging off your skirt in a loop 
like a skipping-rope.^^ 

Give me a couple of pins — or, stay, child, put your foot 
on it and rip it off. Ho one will see. 

Bedizened in hat and feathers, with bangles and sequins, 
Mrs. Eedfern sailed away with Triptolema. The girl sup- 
posed her mother would visit the mill, and thank Joe in 


36 


LITTLE TU^PEKITY. 


person^ and rather wondered how she would get on among 
the sacks of flour without becoming powdered, but Mrs. 
Kedfern undeceived her. 

Of course, not, Lema. Gentlemen call on ladies, not 
ladies on gentlemen. I hope I Ve put on enough O-d-Klone. 
Fve been peeling onions, and Fve used the scent to hide 
it.^^ 

Mrs. Eedfern drew Trip to the cottage, though the girFs 
head was turned longingly to the mill. 

‘‘Look, mamma, there are the sails! DonT they go 
high?^^ 

“Yes, Lema, but however you could have thought of 
going up on them passes me.^^ 

“ Mamma, you have always told me to aim at rising. 

Mrs. Eedfern intended to blaze in her grandeur in the 
face of the widow; like a peacock to strut and spread her 
plumes, her sealskin, her bangles, her sequins, and to 
stupefy her with her eau-de-Cologne, 

And, indeed, when she entered the cottage, the atmos- 
phere was at once impregnated with the scent. No sooner 
had she taken a chair, at the request of the widow, than, 
looking about her, she saw that her daughter had given her 
the slip. Indeed Miss Trip was then running to the mill. 

Mrs. Western was not particularly pleased to receive a 
visit from the keeper ^s wife. She had a low opinion of 
Mrs. Eedfern. She thought her a vain, foolish woman, 
and had often remarked that it was sad so silly a creature 
should have so nice a child to spoil with her nonsense. 

“ What a queer smell there is here,'’^ said Mrs. Western, 
and that was her first remark after she had somewhat un- 
graciously offered her visitor a chair. 

“ It is 0-d-Klone,^^ said Mrs. Eedfern, airily; “I just 
put half a drop on the end of my hankercher before I 
stepped out. I donT like the smell of beans, I get the hay 
fever. You are not accustomed to it, I suppose?^^ 

“ OanH say I am.""^ 


LITTLE TU^PENKY. 


37 


“ It comes of education. I can^t exist without it. ^ ^ 

‘^And pray/^ said Mrs. Western, grimly, ‘Miave you 
taken the trouble of coming here, just like a salts bottle, 
to make me sneeze 

You don^t like it, I fear,^’ said Mrs. Eedfern, super- 
ciliously. Perhaps not, yet it is d-stingy. 

Stingy it is,^^ answered Mrs. Western, sternly; I feel 
it right up my nose. But 1^11 trouble you, ma^am, under 
this respectable roof not to swear. I donH make no odds 
whether you say the full bad word out, or make it a M ^ 
with a dash. The former is the more honest. My son 
donT swear, and I wonT have a woman cussing and dashing 
her ^ d^s/ here.^^ 

Was ever a woman so taken down? Mrs. Redfern was 
silent in. wrath and consternation. 

In the meanwhile Trip had gone to the mill, run up the 
steps as freely as if they led her home, and encountered Joe 
the miller in the flour-room. 

^‘Mother has come to thank your mother,’^ she said 
eagerly, because you saved my life yesterday. 

He at once left what he was about and stood before her. 

But IVe done a deal better,'’^ she continued, with bright 
face and sparkling eyes. Fve come on here to thank 
you. It was you, Joe, saved me, not Mrs. Western. 

She put out both her hands to his. He took and held 
them. 

If you are really thankful for what I did,^^ he said 
gently, youTl not run about anymore in idleness, getting 
into mischief, disturbing busy men; but will go back to 
school. 

Do you really wish it, Joe?^^ 

‘‘Ido.^^ 

“ Then ITl go. But I wonT promise for how long. 
Now I want you to tell me if it be true that you go to 
church because the parson gets barley meal of you for his 
pigs?^^ 


38 


LITTLE TU^'PEKNY. 


He flushed angrily. She saw that his face waxed red 
under the bloom of flour that was over it. 

It is not true. I go to church not only to get, but to 
give.^^ 

“ Oh/^ she said, in the Offertory. Most of the farm- 
ers stay away on the flrst Sunday in the month because of 
the collection. What do you give? A threepenny bit?^^ 
Then Joe laughed, a queer dry laugh, as if he had never 
laughed before, and was trying a new acquaintance. 

It is a pity, ’’said Trip, that there are not smaller 
silver bits coined than threepence. Then the farmers might 
come, and not stay away because of the collection. ’ ’ 

Then Joe caught the face of Trip between his floury 
hands, and held it up and shook it, and laughed again, and 
then became very grave, and said, Oh, Little Tu’penny! 
Little Tu’penny! would that the minting and the making 
of you were in other hands than they are; then a bit of 
shining coin would, indeed, be struck out of poor little 
wasted Tu’penny.” 


VII. 

HOW SHE WAS SPOILED. 

Mbs. Kedfekk never again visited the miller’s cottage; 
she never after that complimentary call spoke of Mrs. W est- 
ern with patience. She had taken a strong and bitter dis- 
like to the harmless old widow. And it must be admitted 
that she had a grievance against her. Mrs. Western had 
deprived her of the power or inclination to employ a cer- 
tain word again which had at one time dropped pretty freely 
from her lips. The rebuff of the widow had cut her to the 
quick, and she felt her gorge rise against her whenever the 
opportunity came to her to use the same serviceable word, 
and she was constrained to suppress it and substitute for it 
another word less expressive and less emphatic. 


LITTLE ‘TU^PEi^NY. 


39 


But the keeper, when he knew what Joe had done, held 
out his hand to him frankly and thanked him, and sent 
him a brace of rabbits, and offered him a day now and 
then with him ferreting and shooting. Domestic servants 
and out-of-door retainers are alike in this:' they are most 
generous with their masters^ goods. 

Joe did not accept the offer ; he had not time to waste in 
sports, or, possibly, he had not much taste for them. 

‘‘ Well, then,^^ said the keeper; 1^11 tell you what Til 
do. I'll come with my dogs, and We'll have out and kill all 
the rats about your mill." 

This offer Joe gladly accepted. 

The incidents recorded in the last chapters were the be- 
ginning of a friendly intimacy between Joe and Little 
Tu' penny. Indeed, Joe was the only person from whom 
Miss Triptolema^ Yellowleaf Redfern would endure to be 
called by this nickname; and perhaps she bore it from him 
because she recalled how he had associated it with a com- 
pliment about Twopence and precious metal, which, how- 
ever, she did not understand, and not understanding, sup- 
posed to be more fine and fiattering than it was. 

“ Tu' penny, why are you not at school:" This was on 
the morning of the rat-hunt. Trip had come to the mill 
to be present at it. 

“ Mr. Joe Miller," answered she, mother has engaged 
a governess. " 

Dick Redfern burst into a laugh. 

“ My "missus," explained he, ‘‘is uncommon grand in 
her ideas. She's got a little girl, as hasn't passed her Third 
Standard, to come and teach our Trip, and calls her her 
governess. Shea’s only thirteen. I don't approve; but 
can't help it. A woman must manage the girls. They're 
like snipe, fly queer, and it needs a sharp eye and a shelled 
gun to wing 'em. " 

Then Joe's face darkened. He would not speak to Trip. 
He would not even look at her. She danced about trying 


40 


LITTLE TU/PENIirY. 


to engage his attention; but he would accord her no notice. i 
Presently she stole up to him when he was by himself, and ' 
said, What is the matter, Mr. Joe? Why are you cross 
with me?^^ 

You promised me to go to school, and you have not 
gone. She stood and looked at him, then turned and ran 
home. 

Mother, she said, won^t have any governess. 
Give me two pennies, I am going back to school; I'’ 11 for- 
give the master. Joe has shown me that he meant no 
harm when he called me names. DonH you see, mother, 
all the children pay a penny a week, and, as I^m superior 
to the rest, he wants me to pay twopence. If in future I 
do that, it will be all right. 

said Mrs. Eedfern, that will satisfy me. I 
couldn^t think to have you. Trip, classed with all them 
brats of the village — little penny^ers. But if you pay two- 
pence it will show youYe of another and higher sort alto- 
gether. 

Then Trip took her twopence and hastened to the school, 
though late for the roll-call. As she went by the mill she 
pulled out her whistle and piped. 

The terriers and spaniels were running about barking, 
driving the rats— the former at the holes and after the 
beasts on land, the spaniels plunging into the water after 
them. Dick, the keeper, had a sack with ferrets in it, with 
little jingles about their necks, that he might hear the 
creatures when underground. He held up his finger. He 
was kneeling by a bank, and the dogs were silent; then he 
put his ear down to a hole. 

Then Tripps whistle attracted Joe^s attention, and he 
looked round. He saw her holding up her coppers — new, 
shining coppers— twopence — in the sun. She slipped her 
whistle into her pocket when she saw that he observed her, 
and danced down the road to school, clinking the pieces 
over her head. 


LITTLE T*U^PEKKY. 


41 


Joe stood and looked after her^ and the cloud went off 
I his brow. There was good in that chM; she was not 
j utterly spoiled. 

! Unfortunately Mrs. Eedfern^s bad influence came into 
play again to counteract the good Joe had done. She told 
Trip that she would only allow her to remain at school till 
she had passed the Fourth Standard; after which she was 
I to be her own mistress again, and was to learn nothing 
more than the piano and dancing. 

This stimulated Trip to great activity. She was cleveiv 
learned quickly, and, where she had a purpose, went 
through with it. That she had shown in the matter of sail- 
ing on the windmill-wings. 

Now she worked hard, at the next examination did well, 
passed in the Fourth Standard well; she read intelligently, 
could write a neat hand, was fair at sums, but bad at nee- 
dle-work. 

When the examination was over the holidays began, and 
it was a settled thing that her education was complete, at 
all events so far as the village school went. She was thence- 
forth more at home than ever with her mother, and her 
mother^s mischievous influence affected her more than for- 
merly. She listened to her mothers boastful talk, to the 
golden dreams of a splendid future painted by the silly 
woman to excite the vanity and ambition of her daughter. 
Her mother dressed her beyond her status, and spent an 
hour every day in doing up Trip’s fair, abundant hair in 
divers iashions. She praised her child’s good looks, taught 
her to be very careful not -to contract freckles, and bade 
her, if she went out in the sun, keep her hands under her 
pinafore lest they should become burned. She would not 
allow Trip to do any of the rough work of the house lest it 
should spoil the texture of her hands; she bought a second- 
hand cottage piano, and engaged one of the mistresses of 
the school to give music-lessons to her child. She encour- 
aged Trip to read romances. In a word, she labored as 


42 


LITTLE TU'^PENKY. 


hard as she could, quite unintentionally, with the best will j 
in the world to ruin Trip. i 

The father was easy-going, good-humored, and laughed 
at his wife^s proceedings. He took no steps to interfere 
with them in his daughter's behalf. The only good that 
the unfortunate girl got, the only seeds of principle sown 
in her, came from Joe Western. 

It was a curious fact that Joe, so reserved and unsociable 
with his fellows, unbent to the girl. He did not grudge a. 
talk with her, or the time spent in her society; he learned 
even to smile at her odd and audacious remarks. He even 
encouraged her to visit the mill. He knew that she got 
harm at home. He knew that she had alienated the girls 
of her own age, her former associates, by her conceit, and 
he hoped to be able to supply some little check to jthe mis- 
chief which was going on. When the sails were in full 
swing, and Trip was being made giddy, he had put on the 
drag and saved her; perhaps now he might do something 
of the sort morally. I do not know that he thought this 
all out for himself, but a dim sense of pity for the child 
filled him, and a desire to befriend and better her was like 
a warm spark in his heart. 

One evening his mother said to him, in reference to Trip, 
who had been into the cottage to beg for bread and honey. 

It is a bad lookout for the little lass. With a careless 
father and a foolish mother, she will go utterly to the bad 
in the end. I see it all before me. It can not be other. 
As you bend a plant so it will grow. What are you sigh- 
ing about, Joe?^^ 

Sighing, mother? I^m blowing the flour out of my 
lungs. 

Hext day he was not in his usual amiable frame of mind 
when the girl appeared in the mill door, a lovely appari- 
tion, dark against the brilliant sky behind, standing on one 
leg, with a hand on each door-post, looking in and singing. 
His gray eyes rested on the graceful figure. The face was 


LITTLE TU^PENKY. 


43 


in shadow because a sunlit white cloud was behind it, and 
he blew the flour again out of his lungs. 

She continued warbling, standing on one leg. 

Hush said Joe, starting to the stairs. ‘‘There is 
the bell ringing; the hopper is empty. 

When Joe had gone aloft. Trip produced her whistle and 
piped. He did not come down till he had filled the hop- 
per. Then he descended leisurely. He found the girl 
seated on a flour sack pouting. 

“ You care for the hopper more than for me,^'’ she said; 
“ when the hopper rings you run up to it, when I whistle 
you will not come to me.^^ 

“ Because I am really needed at the hopper; as I have 
already told you — when you really need me, I will come to 
you.^'’ 

“ If I whistle? 

“ Without your whistle. When you were flying, or 
rather,' falling, you did not call me, but I came. • 

“ Yes— at the right moment, dear Joe.'^^ 

She sat on the sack, thinking, with her finger on the 
dimple in her cheek, and he looked at her, not without sad- 
ness on his brow. 

All at once she brightened, turned her dark eyes on him, 
and said, “ Miller Joe, you are going to let this sack down 
into the basement. It is on the trap. Give me a ride 
down. 

He shook his head. He took her hand and lifted her 
from the sack, and made her stand on one side. 

“ Run down, little woman, below. The sack, it is true, 
is going to be let by the trap into the basement, but never, 
and in no way, will I let you down. Go below and stand 
on the trap, and when the sack is removed I will haul you 
up. 

She went out at the door, ran down the steps, and pres- 
ently he saw her through the hole in the roof of the weigh- 
ing-house and floor of the flour-chamber, holding the chain 


44 


LITTLE TU'PEKUY. 


of the lift, and looking up. He heaved, and up she came, 
with bright uplifted face and fluttering white hair, and 
smiles in her dancing eyes. Then he knelt, put out both 
his hands, and lifted her on to the floor and closed the 
trap. 

So, Little Tu^penny!^^ he said. Hever down; too 
many who know no better are doing that with you; I will 
always put out my hands and help you up. 

But she understood nothing of his meaning. How 
should she? She was but a child. 


VIII. 

OE CAUTIOUS GIYEH. 

As a child, her mother’s t^lk had not taken great, 
though it had taken some, hold of Trip, but as she grew 
out of childhood it flred her imagination. 

She had been so nursed in the notion that she was to 
have a grand future, and that the only way in which this 
grand future was to be secured was through a grand mar- 
riage, and the only way in which a grand marriage was to 
be arrived at was by personal adornment, the cultivation of 
complexion and hair, and by coquetry, that as Trip grew 
into young womanhood she qualified for it with even 
greater eagerness than she had qualified before for idleness 
by passing the Fourth Standard. A life of luxury and ex- 
travagance, of wearing of fine dresses and of seeing sights, 
of being admired, and of doing nothing was held up to her 
as the reward of passing the Fifth Standard. That Fifth 
Standard was the captivating and catching of a wealthy 
husband. 

In spite of the deterioration of her character, in spite of 
her mother’s remonstrances, the friendship with Joe 
Western was not broken; it lasted on with fluctuations, it 


LITTLE TU^PEi^l^Y. 


45 


lasted in spite of Joe^s ill-humor and her provocations, that 
ill-humor in Joe being the result of her provocations. 

But good there was, lying deep below the surface, buried 
under a wonderful accumulation of frippery and folly. 

They had their quarrels, when Trip bounced out of the 
mill, vowing she would never again revisit it, because Joe 
was glum and had not a word to cast at her; or when Joe, 
angered at some foolish remark or exhibition of petulance, 
gave her a sharp reprimand. Sometimes these quarrels 
lasted a week, once or twice a month, when they neither 
met nor spoke. Reconciliation always came from the side 
of Trip. Joe never sought her out; but when she reap- 
peared, penitent, with downcast head — pitiful entreaty to 
be forgiven — and pleading eyes, he could not resist the ap- 
peal. They shook hands, and were friends again. 

My dear Lema,^^ said her mother, I donT half like 
you to see so much of Mr. Western. He may be, and no 
doubt is, a respectable young man, though he did not let 
his father^s watch run down when he died. That will 
always stand against him. But respectability is not what 
we look at; we look miles beyond that. So, my dear 
Lema, give him no encouragement. If ever it should 
happen that he persuaded you to become Mrs. Joe Miller it 
would bring my gray hairs — no, they are brown, and not 
gray yet — with sorrow to the grave. 

Mamma, what a comical idea! Joe!^^ 

“ Let it remain an idea, and a comical one, Lema. As 
an idea only it is like cold water trickling down my back- 
bone. My dear, if you were to be such a fool as to take 
Mr. Joe Western, I^d wash my hands of you. Flying 
would be as out of the question as when the wings are 
clipped. You^d stick to the soil. ITl tell you exactly 
what it would be like. I was once at a show— a sort of 
mixed circus and menagerie — and it was advertised and 
given out in public that an elephant was to ascend in a 
fire-balloon. Well, I s’pose pounds was took at the door 


46 


LITTLE TU^PEKKY. 


of people that went in to see. I went in. True enough, 
there was the elephant, and there was the fire- balloon. 
The balloon was hooked on to a belt — a very ornamental * 
belt it were, of all the rainbow-colors — passed round the 
body of the elephant. There was a catch at the top, and ^ 
into this catch went an iron hook from the bottom of the 
balloon. Well, Lema, a fire of tow and spirits of wine 
was lighted in the balloon, and I will say this for the bal- 
loon, I believe it did its best to rise, but it couldnT, be- 
cause of the elephant. It could neither lift the great beast 
nor rise itself. So at last the cord was cut, and away flew 
the balloon without him, and we looked after it till it was 
no more than like a star in the sky. But the elephant 
didn'^t budge an inch, not he. He didn^t even look up 
after the balloon. 

Where did it come down,*mamma.^^^ 

Oh, I donH know, nor whether it ever came down at 
all. They ought to have returned us our coppers as the 
elephant didn^t go up, but you may be sure we got nothing 
back. How, my dear Lema, true as I stand here, that 
was a pictur^ of an unequal match. So never you think 
of taking and fastening of yourself on to any elephant; 
you^re a fire-balloon, and ordained to rise to be a star. 

Much about the same time Mrs. Western was addressing 
a word of caution to her son. 

She had watched Joe for long with the anxiety of a 
mother and the perception of the loving eye. At one 
time he seemed to be escaping from his silent ways, to be- 
come more genial and sociable; but of late his curious 
closeness had closed over him again, and had become more 
confirmed and intensified. 

Something weighed on his mind. His mother was sure 
of that; but what it was she did not at once discover. For 
a time she suspected that the business was not prospering, 
that his accounts had not been paid to Christmas, that 
something was wrong with the machinery of the mill. 


LITTLE TU^PEKNT. 


47 


which would entail a heavy outlay which he did not know 
how to meet, that custom was falling off — but she aban- 
doned all these suppositions, there was no evidence to sub- 
stantiate them, and the man was able to satisfy her that 
everything went well with the mill. 

What was the matter with Joe? 

The clouds that had hung as a haze about his boyhood 
had lightened for awhile and promised to disperse, then 
had settled down into darkness. At one time he had 
smiled, even laughed; but now his face was uniformly 
grave, and a line as of pain was formed on his brow. 
When unobserved Mrs. Western watched her son; she saw 
that thoughts were working and troubling his brain. His 
cheek twitched and his eye lightened, then darkened, and 
he leaned his head on his hand, pretending to be engaged 
on his accounts, but without fixing his eyes on his ledger. 
He went about his work with regularity. He eat, he slept, 
dug in his garden, attended to the mill and to the bees, 
made up his accounts, went to church, with system, as a 
machine; but of the brightness of youth, of its fiuctuations 
of temper, there was nothing in him. He read, he 
thought, but he did not talk, and he sought no amuse- 
ments. Her son^s soul was a sealed letter to Mrs. Western. 

She observed that his fits of deepest depression accom- 
panied by nervous twitchings of the muscles of his face, 
and the expression of greatest suffering on his face, 
occurred after his interviews with Trip. Nevertheless, she 
did not arrive at the right solution even then; it seemed to 
her prepossessed mind that Joe would never care for any 
girl who was not as grave, sedate, and systematic as him- 
self. That so frivolous, inconsiderate a coquette as Trip 
should have seized on her son^s heart was inconceivable by 
her for long. She resisted the thought — she fought against 
evidence when it came on her. No — Joe was ill, he was 
suffering from some internal malady. 

She asked him if he had any illness hanging about him; 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 


48 • 

anything the matter with his liver? He shook his head 
and answered, I am quite well, mother/^ 

‘‘ Have you been chipping the stones, and the grit got 
into your lungs, Joe?^^ 

My lungs are sound,’ ^ he said. 

And there’s nothing the matter with your heart?” she 
asked. 

Then he stood up, shaking his head, and went out to his 
bees. 

She watched him through the window. She saw him 
presently standing looking at his hand and squeezing ih 
She went after him into the garden. 

What is it, Joe?” 

A bee has stung me, that is all. I have drawn out 
the sting. It will hurt no more.” 

Will you have the blue bag for it, Joe?” 

He shook his head. 'No; when the sting can be drawn 
out the hurt is soon over; it is where the sting goes deep 
and remains, that it rankles and aches and poisons the 
blood.” 

He was not thinking of the bee. She was sure of that* 
He spoke of another sting. Her eyes were opened. She 
saw all plain. Then her face became very grave. 

Now, Joe,” she said, put the thought from you. It 
never can be. She is not the sort of wife for you; with 
such an unreasonable name, too. Triptolema Yellowleaf ! 
It would give me the bronchitis to call her by it every 
day. ” 

Mother — oh, mother!” 

^^It is of no use your ‘ mothering’ me. I can see. I 
know what consumes you. You love her because she is 
beautiful and winning. I don’t deny all that; but she is 
not for you. If you had her you would be utterly misera- 
ble. ” 

"" I know it.” 

“Yes, Joe, you know it; and yet you love her, that is 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 

it. Your reason says that she would drive you mad if she 
were yours, and make your home a hell, and yet you have 
not the moral courage to think no more of her. You think 
of her all day and all night, when you work, when you 
pray, when you dream. 

He put his hand to his heart. 

Then Joe, pluck the sting out; pluck it out and cast 
it away. 

‘‘Mother, I can not; it is too deep. It poisons me, 
that is true — but — I can not. Indeed, I can not!^^ 


IX. 

HOW THE CHAHCE CAME. 

There was a small inn, called the Dog and Pheasant, 
between the park and the mill. Sometimes, when many 
visitors were at the Hall, the servants who could not be ac- 
commodated in the house were sent to the Dog and Pheas- 
ant. It was a tidy, respectable, old-fashioned inn, low, 
yellow-washed, with russet tile roof, and a vine, a Black 
Hamborough, trained on a trellis over the roof, where it 
ripened well in warm summers. The host had been butler 
to the old squire before the property was sold to the suc- 
cessful Oxford Street tradesman. However much the host 
might turn up his lip of scorn in the privacy of his own 
room with his wife over these 'parvenus, he was most urbane 
and obsequious to them in public, for Mr. Tottenham was 
his landlord, and the Hall brought a good deal of custom 
to the Dog and Pheasant. 

Throughout the neighborhood of London the old families 
have well-nigh disappeared. They have migrated, and 
sold their estates and mansions to wealthy tradesmen, who 
live in the old seats in far grander style than did the plain 
country squires. 


LITTLE TU'PEKKY. 


50 

Riiigwood had belonged to the family of Eingwood for 
three hundred years, then came a spendthrift, then rash’ 
speculation, bad times, finally a break-up. Squire Eing-* 
wood was obliged to sell his ancestral estate and manor 
house, and it was bought by the Tottenhams, of the firm 
of Tottenham & Sons, Oxford Street. 

Mr. Tottenham ^ere was entirely a self-made man, a 
plain man, who never put an h where it ought to be, 
but had always known where to place an investment. At : 
the time of our story he was vastly wealthy, with a house 
full of pictures, mostly bad, china, modern and ancient, or 
imitation ancient, and abundance of heavy silver plate. 
His wife and daughters possessed thousands of pounds^ 
worth of jewelry; his cellars were full of the most costly 
wines. The Tottenhams were indeed rolling in money, 
and hardly knew how to spend it all. They went out in 
ostentation, as being about the only way in which they 
could go out. They gave sumptuous dinner-parties, garden- 
parties, and balls, at which no expense was spared to make 
them finer than those given by other parvenu families 
round, and quite unapproachable by any of the old gentry 
who here and there hung on, as the last leaves on a tree 
bursting for a fresh spring. 

The tenants found that a great difference was made by 
the change of masters. Mr. Tottenham was a keen man of 
business, and he looked upon his investment in land from 
an entirely business point of view. He was not to be hum- 
bugged. The tenants soon accommodated themselves to 
the new order, and did not respect Mr. Tottenham the less 
for seeing straight through them, and counting all they 
said, and exposing their dodges. Here and there, as al- 
ready said, a few of the old gentry lingered on like fiy- 
blown sheep, which lie down, and allow themselves to be 
eaten up till they expire, without making an effort to resist 
and shake the maggots off. But it was quite another thing 
with the new people fresh from trade; they could not see 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 


51 


their way to being fly-blown; they could not accommodate 
themselves to being eaten up alive. 

One day there arrived at the Dog and Pheasant a gentle- 
man of engaging exterior and manners. He wore a black 
I frock coat that fitted him admirably, lavender pants, and 
i kid gloves, a crimson ribbon round his throat, a Gloire de 
I Dijon rose in his button-hole. His name — he showed his 
cards — Mr. Algernon Beaufort. He had a delicate cgm- 
plexion and a slight cough. He came into the country 
because he had been ordered country air, and to Ping wood 
because Ringwood was prescribed as specially salubrious. 

He strolled about the neighborhood for a day or two, 
and found it dull — an endless tract of London clay, broken 
by old tile pits and puddles. In time one may have too 
much of a good thing; it takes very little time to have 
enough of London clay. 

Mr. Beaufort, standing in the bar, ^rawing on his gloves, 
with his elegant lavender legs wide apart, asked if it were 
permissible for strangers to stroll in the Park. The host 
of the inn hesitated. It was not a favor generally accorded, 
but if the gentelman would not mind taking a message of 
thanks from him to the keeper, whose lodge was in the 
park, for a brace of rabbits he had sent his missus, it might 
serve as an excuse. Then Mr. Beaufort could look about 
him, and see the trees, and the deer, and the lake; and the 
keeper might, perhaps, take him over the warren. 

Mr. Beaufort was much obliged. His Glore de Dijon 
was faded, so he ventured to beg a China rose of the land- 
lady, which suited his complexion better even than the 
Gloire de Dijon, assumed his highly polished hat, curled 
up at the side, took his cane, lighted a cigar, and sallied 
forth. He entered the side gate of the main entrance, 
sauntered about the well-wooded grounds, came to the 
keeper’s lodge, delivered his message, and asked to be al- 
lowed to sit down and drink a glass of water. His appear- 
ance, his complexion, his address, struck Mrs. Redfern as 


52 


LITTLE TU^PENKY. 


aristocratic. She made him very welcome, entered into 
conversation with him, assured him that her marriage had 
been a come down in life, and that, though she lived under 
a cottage-roof, she knew what good society was, having 
lived in baronial halls. This was a little bit of an exag- 
geration, but it did not matter. Baronial halls — even when 
converted, by an infirmity of the speaker’s, into ’alls — 
soryids well. 

Mr. Beaufort assured the lady that he quite believed it. 
Something in her speech and bearing had struck him as 
out of the common when he first saw her. Then she told 
him how she had acquired her finished address and polite 
bearing. She had been lady’s-maid to the Misses Totten- 
ham, of the great house, one of whom was now married. 
The other was still single, but said to be engaged. It was 
a sad blow, she said, to old Mr. Tottenh§im that his eldest 
son had married an q^ctress; he was not allowed to remain 
in the firm. He was given an annuity, and did not t3ome 
to Eingwood. 

And this, sir,” she said, as Trip appeared, this, sir, 
is my daughter. ’ 

Your sister, surely,” exclaimed Mr. Beaufort, starting 
to his feet and bowing gracefully, with a wave of his hat. 

My daughter, an only child, sir, aged eighteen.” 

Impossible, madame!” 

‘‘Pray be seated,” urged the flattered Mrs. Eedfern. 
“ If I might offer you some of our modest ale and hum- 
ble cake, sir, or unpretentious biscuits — ” 

With the highest pleasure. My name — I ought to 
have introduced myself — is Beaufort;” he put a card on 
the table. “ You may chance to know the name; if you 
study the peerage you will have observed that there is a 
Duke of my name.” 

Mrs. Eedfern was giddy with excitement. She whispered 
to her daughter, “ Lema, put on your myrtle-green with 
coffee trimmings; in it you look beautif ullest. ” Then she 


LITTLE TU^PENHY. 


53 


'fiastened to produce cake, biscfuits, glasses, and a jug of ale, 
I and place them on the little table under the balcony of the 
I picturesque cottage. 

I I hope this is not too draughty a place, sir; our parlor 

■ is at your disposal, Mr. Beaufort. 

E^ot at all; this is charming — idyllic. 

I hear you cough, sir; I hope, Mr. Beaufort, .no pom- 
melary delicacy. 

I ' Indeed, I am sorry to say I am not strong in the chest. 

I I have been ordered by my physicians to the air and quiet 
• of the country, and Eingwood was specially recommended 
j because of the ozone which is there. 

1 The — the what?^^ asked Mrs. Eedfern, much puzzled. 

■ The ozone that can be inhaled here. Inhale — you un- 
'derstand — breathed. 

I ^^Ohlherer^^ 

I Yes. To make it plain to you, madame, just as cod- 
iliver oil is swallowed, so is ozone inhaled. 

Oh, I know that people of the first quality take cod- 
liver oil — De Jongh^s — my young ladies took it.^^ 

Exactly. 

And I suppose people of quality breathe the other 
thing. 

Precisely. All people of fashion inhale ozone. 

1^11 have a bottle made up at the chemist^s for Lema,^^ 
said Mrs. Eedfern, grandly. 

After a pause, and the eating of a biscuit, Mr. Beaufort 
said, 

‘‘ So you, my dear madame, were lady^s-maid at Eing- 
wood. A position of great responsibility — next to that of 
the b u tier, the m os t . ^ ^ 

Eesponsibility!^^ exclaimed Mrs. Eedfern, I should 
think so. IVe had thousands of pounds’ worth of jewelry 
ipass through my hands. My young ladies were awful care- 
less, and left their brooches, and bracelets, and necklaces 
about. I’ve had times out of mind to put them away for 


54 


LITTLE TU^PEKI^Y. 


them. I didn't think it right that they should be lefi 
littering anywhere. " 

And where did you put them away, madame?" 

^^In morocco cases, locked in a jewel-box, which wag 
kept in the wardrobe. But there is not quite so much now 
as was, as the eldest of the young ladies is married, and 
took hers away with her." 

‘"I suppose the plate of the family must be superb:" 

Soup-erb ain't the word for it," said Mrs. Kedfern. 

What sort of a gentleman, now, is the butler?" 

Mr. Thomson. Oh, polished as his plate." 

Would it be possible for me to see over the house? I 
am thinking of building Beaufort Court in Gloucestershire 
and am interested in gentlemen's places. One can take 
hints everywhere I find, that is, if one has an intelligent 
mind." 

‘‘Well, sir, Eingwood ain't generally shown; there's 
generally some of the family here, though they do go to 
London a deal. The ladies find it dull in the country, and 
the old gentleman has been so much in business all his life 
that he must be doing something in his old age, so they 
make over to him the hosiery branch of the affair. But I 
dare say the house might be looked over. The family are 
mighty proud of their pictures, painted by the most d— I 
mean fashionable artists, and which have cost the old gen- ^ 
tleman pounds on pounds. Come here, Triptolema. My j 
daughter and I will be pleased to walk with you, sir, to jj 
Eingwood. Mrs. Podgings, the housekeeper, is a very ] 
superior person, and eager to oblige me. Mr. Thomson, ] 
I have no doubt, will allow himself to be coaxed into let- ■ 
ting you have a peep at the plate." Then, aside to her -^ 
daughter, “ My dear, go on with the gentleman. I will \ 
follow. The opportunity has come. Now is your chance. | 

Lay hold." 1 


LITTLE TU'PEKl^Y. 


55 


X. 

HOW SOME OHE SEIZED A CHAHCE. 

Mr. Beaufort/^ said Mrs. Eedfern, graciously, 

would you miud stepping on with my daughter? 1^11 
follow directly. 1^11 just first slip on my sealskin and 
hat.^^ 

She allowed Triptolema to go most of the way with the 
stranger. Trip looked charming; her color was heightened. 
Her mother's words had kindled her fancy. The gentle- 
man at her side was good-looking, faultlessly dressed, pol- 
ished in manner, presumably rich — ^he talked of Beaufort 
Court which he was rebuilding, and a man can not build 
without money — certainly well-born. He had a Duke in 
his family. That was better than a Bart. Trip put on her 
best graces, and when Trip wanted to be gracious she was 
irresistible. 

Mr. Beaufort chatted pleasantly, admired everything, 
had flattering remarks to make to his companion, with 
whom he was really struck. 

Eingwood House was of red brick, a large, stately man- 
sion, with long windows, plaster quoins, plaster cornices 
and vases and balustrades, which looked well with the old 
red brick. 

Mrs. Eedfern came up with her daughter and Mr. Beau- 
fort before they reached the back door. 

“ Dear me!" said the gentleman, ‘‘ this strikes me as 
the perfect ideal of a house. If the interior arrangements 
are equal to the exterior perfection I shall take a notion or 
two away with me. For my part, I like neither comfort 
sacrificed to architectural design nor architectural beauty 
neglected for internal comfort. I shall be most interested 
to see over this house." 

The housekeeper, Mrs. Podgings, was accommodating. 


56 


LITTLE TU^PEKNY. 


She liked to have a chat with Mrs. Eedfern. The butler 
was gracious; he had a liking, indeed an unbounded ad- 
miration, for Trip, and vowed he only wished he were ten 
years younger to make her Mrs. Thomson. Whereat Trip 
was wont to toss her pretty head. 

The gentleman was invited along with the ladies into the 
butler^s private room. He must insist on their all return- 
ing there after having been over the house and inspected 
the pictures. He trusted a light refection there would be 
acceptable all roupd. 

So Mrs. and Miss Eedfern and Mr. Beaufort started on 
their round, conducted by Mrs. Podgings. Fortunately the 
family were out, the house was accessible in all parts. Mrs. 
Eedfern was anxious to see all the old rooms again she had 
known so well, and take Mrs. Podgings^s attention while 
the young people talked together. Mr. Beaufort was en- 
chanted with everything. He admired the paintings, the 
porcelain, the glass, the curtains, carpets, furniture — every- 
thing was in admirable taste, and most expensive. 

But what fascinated him more even than the pictures 
and china was the perfect arrangement of the house — so 
compact, so comfortable. He must ask permission to be 
allowed to make a few rough sketch-plans in his pocket- 
book for his information and guidance in the erection of 
Beaufort Court, Gloucestershire. The permission was at 
once accorded him, and, pencil in hand, he drew plans, 
and was too engrossed in them to say much to Trip. 'i 

-At last, when all had been seen, the party returned to 
the butleFs room, where he had for them a bottle of dry 
Sillery. Some had been drunk at dinner the evening be- 
fore, and a bottle had been reserved by the butler for his 
own particular friends. 

Celery, said Mrs. Eedfern, misunderstanding the 
butler (she was not up in the names of wines). Lawk! 
How fashions do alter, and how we must educate and edu- 
cate to keep up to the times. Before I was married — and 


LITTLE TU'PEKNY. 


57 


it is so still with the inferior classes — we used to eat celery 
with bread and cheese. How you manage to drink it is a 
puzzle to me. But IVe heard of wine made of rhubarb, 
and I suppose this is made in like manner of celery. Well, 
the world turns round, and where should we be if we did 
not turn round with it?^^ 

‘‘Mr. Thomson,^ ^ said Trip, putting on her most co- 
quettish manner, “ might Mr. Beaufort have a sight of the 
silver wheelbarrow?^^ 

“ Barrow? Certainly,^^ answered the butler. “ Any- 
thing you ask, miss, must be complied with.^^ Then, ex- 
^planatory to the visitor, “You see, sir, Tottenham began 
life with a wheelbarrow, some fifty years a-gone, and as an 
occasion of telling the story, and showing how clever a man 
he has been, he has had two dozen little silver wheelbar- 
rows made holding glass salt-cellars; a salt to each guest, 
you understand. At a dinner-party Tottenham never fails 
to tell the story apropos of the cellars. He^s had on the 
sides an inscription, ‘ Propera,^ which, I take it, means 
‘ Shove along. ^ 

“ I donT think it,^^ interrupted Mrs. Eedfern, “ though 
I^m sorry to differ from you, Mr. Thomson. How ‘ Pro- 
pera ^ can mean ‘ Shove along, ^ beats me. I see clear 
enough what it signifies. Proper A means A one, and Mr. 
Tottenham means that whatever he has from his pictures, 
his plate, down to his dinner and salt, is A one, and noth- 
ing that isnT A one will suit him. 

“It may be, Mrs. Eedfern, said the butler, blandly. 
“ But I take it the language is Latin. However, this is in- 
terrupting my story. The missus, she don’t particularly 
like Tottenham's boasting of his small beginnings, she is 
more high in her notions, and she always says an aside to 
the chief gent that took her in, ‘ What Tottenham says 
must be taken, like the barrow, with salt. He was a 
younger son, and the bulk of the projperty went to the eld- 
est. He came off only with the barrow. That is what 


58 


LITTLE TU^PEKKY. 


comes of our laws of primogeniture, which in a civilized 
and Christian land ought to be done away with/ 

‘‘And so they ought/" threw in Mrs. Eedfern, “be- 
cause I don"t understand nothing about them. "" 

“But/" continued the butler, “about that inscription 
on the barrows. I know that Tottenham did not comb it 
out of his own head. He asked the rector, who is an Ox- 
ford scholar, to help him. Propera is what it is. l^ow, 
Mr. Beaufort, you can help us to the meaning. ‘ Shove 
along " do seem rather vulgar. What does it mean?"" 

“Sir/" said Mr. Beaufort, graciously, “till I see the 
plate itself I can hardly decide between you and Mrs. Red- 
fern. The letters may be Greek, or even Hebrew. Sup- 
pose you allow me to look at them?"" 

“ Certainly, sir,"" said the butler, rising and taking his 
keys. 


* XI. 


HOW ONE LOST A CHANCE. 

Mr. Beaueort"s visits to the cottage were daily, and 
Miss Trip wore her myrtle-green alternately with her sage- 
green gowns, her first alternately with her second-best. 
Mrs. Eedfern ordered her a third-best of crushed strawberry 
to be got ready as quickly as the milliner could make it. 
Crushed strawberry would crush the heart of Mr. Algernon 
Beaufort (with a duke in the family), and bring him to the 
feet of Trip. But, indeed, Mr. Beaufort seemed ready to 
throw himself unreservedly at those pretty little feet, un- 
brought there by any crushed strawberry. 

He was full of civility, and overfiowed with compliments, 
which, though not original, were nevertheless acceptable. 
Of the gracefulness of his attentions there could be no 
question. 

One day he brought Trip a bouquet — Mrs. Eedfern 
called it a bucket — of stephanotis. He had sent to town 


LITTLE TU^PENKY. 


59 


p'. 

I for it, to Covent Garden, and he presented it as the fairest 
! of flowers to the fairest of maidens. 

On another occasion he gave her a box of bonbons with 
the equally feeble and worn compliment that he offered 
; sweets to the sweetest. 

One could hardly have supposed that any number of peo- 
ple could be deceived by the appearance and address of this 
man. Yet Joe the miller, who saw little of him, was the 
only person who had any suspicion that he was not what he 
pretended to be. It is often asserted that the uneducated 
are keenly alive to real gentility, and able to detect what is 
spurious. I very much question this. I believe that they 
are easily imposed upon by mere brag; but I am quite cer- 
tain that in the semi-educated class, such as servants, who 
ought, more than others, to be able to distinguish between 
the true and the false, the faculty of so distinguishing is 
wholly absent. The criterion by which they judge is one 
altogether different from the determining faculty in the 
superior class. Contact with culture has confused their 
ideas, not cleared them. 

It was speedily noised in the servants’ hall at Eingwood 
and throughout the parish that the young man with a 
dook in the family ” was paying his addresses to Trip. 
The butler, the cook, the housekeeper, and the upper- 
house-maid at the Hall thought it incumbent on them to 
encourage the courtship; it would add, as Mrs. Eedfern 
said, a claw ” to Eingwood that a daughter of the Park, 
so to speak, should marry into the upper circle of the aris- 
tocracy. Moreover, Mr. Beaufort was much liked by the 
servants. He was full of anecdote, witticisms, scandalous 
stories, about persons of title, all of whom he knew inti- 
mately, and to the truth of which stories he could testify. 

‘‘Your true-blooded aristocrat,” said Mr. Thomson, “ can 
descend to familiarities with us and lose nothing by it; 
but your imrvenus, your wealthy tradesmen who’ve riz 
from a barrow to eat off gold and silver, they have to be 


60 


LITTLE TU^PEKl^Y. 


mighty particular. They have to he with their dignity like 
a sailor with his pants, always a-hitching of it up. 

So little collations were spread for the Eedfern party and 
the stranger in the servants^ hall; a cup of tea was always 
ready for them in the housekeeper’s room when they walkM ; 
to the House. Mr. Beaufort and Trip sat beside each other 
at table^ and a good deal of whispering went on between 
them, both at table and afterward. 

‘"Eeally, sir/’ said the housekeeper, ‘^ Mr. Beaufort, ^ 
you’re getting to know all about our Hall and its ways, as | 
if you was the tame cat of the family.” 

At last Mrs. Eedfern announced she would invite the 
head servants to the lodge to supper 

‘‘I’ll call it an ‘ at home,’ as more d — , I mean fashion- 
able.” 

“ Well,” said her husband, “ if you do, let Joe Western 
have an invite also. He’s a right good fellow, and I care 
for him a deal more than for your rigrnaroling fop of a 
London swell.” 

“ Eigmaroling fop of a London swell!” echoed Mrs. 
Eedfern. “ W^ell, I never. You are worse than a heathen, 
Eichard; and Mr. Beaufort as is going to make a My Lady 
of our Lema. You ain’t a-turning round with the world, 
that’s clear, but are a flying off it into nobody knows 
where.” 

In spite of all her protestations and exclamations, the 
keeper insisted on inviting Joe. Joe was a right-down solid 
man, and Joe should come. He wasn’t all varnish and 
Brunswick black, but true metal, and Dick only wished 
Trip would think of, and take, the miller instead of the 
swell. So the keeper asked Joe Western himself, and, to 
his mother’s astonishment, Joe consented to go. 

Joe went, but he was not an agreeable person in society 
at any time. On this occasion least of all. He had only 
seen Mr. Beaufort at a distance hitherto, from the door of 
his mill, going along the road. Now he studied him with 


LITTLE TU^PEKNY. 


61 


unfriendly eyes, with a scowl on his brow, and with his lips 
set. 

Mr. Beaufort was uneasy. He whispered to Trip a ques- 
tion who he was, and seemed reassured when informed that 
Joe was the miller. 

Joe scarcely eat, drank little, spoke even less. He sat 
and glowered first at Algernon Beaufort, Esq., and then at 
Trip. Hot a muscle of his face moved; but the lines in 
his face became deeper, the brows more knotty, the lips 
tighter. 

Am I an object of such great interest to you, sir, that 
you can not take your eyes off me?^^ asked Beaufort. 

Joe made no answer; he seemed not to have heard the 
question. 

I object to be stared at,^^ said the gentleman. I am 
not accustomed to it in my position. 

Then the young miller stood up and walked to the door. 
Trip was just passing from the kitchen. Joe grasped her 
wrist as with a vise. She looked np in his face. It was no 
longer rigid, every muscle was working; he said in a low 
voice, Come outside to me. Trip — I must speak to you. 
I can not bear more. 

Go on,^^ she said; I will follow you, Joe.^^ 

He went out under the trees; there were deer in the 
park, near at hand was a cluster of them browsing in the 
moonlight on the grass that was white as if frosted with the 
heavily fallen dew. 

‘‘ What is it, Joe?^^ she put her hand on his shoulder. 
He was standing with his head down looking at the deer. 

‘‘ Trip,^^ he said in a voice that quivered with agitation; 
‘‘Trip, dear — dear Trip. WeVe known each other now 
for several years, and I fancy there "^s none in the whole 
world, not my mother even, I think of and care for as I do 
for you. Trip, I can^t bear it. That man, I mistrust him. 
When I get a sack of corn, I take a handful and turn it 
over and look hard at it, and I know the quality of wheat 


62 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 


flour asfll come of it. IVe been looking hard at him, 
harder than ever I studied a sample of wheat. The grain 
is bad. I donT believe in him. He may be a swell and a 
gentleman and all that; but heTl make you miserable and 
break your heart, Trip, as sure as I stand here.^^ 

Oh fiddlesticks! Joe Miller. What ever makes you 
talk to me like this?^^ 

I tell you why. Because— because you are dear to me. 
Because, Trip, if that man were to harm you, I^d kill him, 
if I were to swing for it. 

Such concentrated fury was in his tone as he uttered 
these words, that the girl was startled. 

How savage you are, Joe.^^ 

‘‘Fd bemad if harm came to you, he answered. 

There^s my mill, and my mother — those are all I\e had 
to think of till you came, and I caught you when you tried 
a foolish flight. Take care, take care lest you try another. 

Why do you speak to me in this way? You have no 
right. You are an old friend; that is ail.^^ 

That is all. That is all I suppose I ever can be. But 
I care for you more than your father and mother, and I 
would lay down my life for you. Beware of that man! Do 
not trust his words. He is false; and, sure as I stand here, 

11 make him regret he ever came here, if sorrow and heart- 
break come to Little Tuppenny through him. ^ ^ Then a 
gulp came in his throat, and he said no more. 

My good Joe,^^ said Trip, is this all you have called 
me out to hear?^^ 

All! yes,"^ he answered, turning to her again. No; 
it is not all. One thing more. I give you the chance. 
Trip. That I love j’^ou, love you with every string of my 
heart, you may not know, but it is true. And I know that, 
if you were to take me, you would make me very, wretched 
and break my heart. I know it. I see it written before 
my eyes in letters of blood. But here, knowing all this, I 
say to you. Take me; become my wife, and you shall have 


LITTLE TU^PEKKY. 


63 


my faithful, best hearths love; do what you will, treat me 
how you will, I will love you and serve you till you have 
killed me. That is better than that you should take the 
fellow in yonder, who will break your heart and kill you 
with sorrow. I see what will come to you if you love him 
and take liim. You will be treated unkindly, then cruelly; 
you will be deserted and cast out; and my- Little Tuppenny 
— my Little Tuppenny — his voice broke, he raised both* 
his strong arms, folded over his face, and walked up and 
down passionately, agonized, quivering in all his body. 

Trip was in her crushed strawberry gown, in the moon- 
light, without a hat, the silver light on her flaxen lovely 
hair and her sweet face, that looked white in the moon- 
beams. 

Then suddenly Joe the miller stood before her and low- 
ered his arms and held out his hands level before him, and 
looked her earnestly in the face. The light was not on 
him, his face was in shadow, but there seemed to be sparks 
of Are in his eyes. 

Trip,^-^ he said in a rich, earnest, thrilling voice, 
come, put your hands in mine and take me. It is a 
queer courting. I ask you to take me and spoil my life. 
Better that than the other should spoil yours. 

The girl, giddy, little able to realize the depth and inten- 
sity of his passion, the greatness of his devotion, of his 
readiness to sacriflce himself for her, burst into a merry 
laugh. A quiver ran through him at the sound. 

DonT be angry, Joe,^^ she said; I could not help it. 
I was thinking of something mother said of a Are balloon 
hooked to an elephant. It canT be — no — Joe; we are not 
a match. You know it, and so do 1. 

Little Tn^penny,^^ said he sadly, as he dropped his 
hands and, with bent head, turned away, you are right, 
we are no match; but I gave you the chance, knowing 
what must come of it to me, and you have cast it away. 


64 


LITTLE TU^PEUTKY. 


XIL I 

i 

PAST KECALL. 

Joe the miller walked away. He did not return, he did 
not look round again. Trip stood with folded hands look- ; 
•ing after him. The muscles of her mouth were twitching: 
with laughter. In the moonlight the merry dimples came 
into her lovely cheeks. What a droll idea of her mother ; 
that was of the balloon and the elephant. 

But she was a little sorry that she had laughed aloud and 
hurt Joe’s feelings. He was a good soul. Perhaps she. 
might miss his friendship when she left that part of the 
country. 

She was looking after him as he went along the drive, 
broad and white in the moonlight, with his hands joined 
behind his back and his head low down. He was a solidly 
built young man. He walked slowly, steadily, with firm 
tread. Every step was taking him further from her, not 
for that night, but forever, so it seemed to her. The dim- 
ples went out of her cheeks, and she took one step forward 
as though to go after him, and a transient feeling ‘woke 
in her heart that she had made a mistake to send him away. 
But it was soon effaced, as writing on the sea-sand is effaced 
by the rising tide, for the next thought that swept over her 
mind was — she was born for better things than to be, as her 
mother said, a Mrs. Windmiller. 

So faithful, so kind, so gentle, Joe had ever been to her, 
and to every one else so inaccessible, so hard, and cold. 
Then a gush of warm, true feeling poured through her 
veins, and she cried out, 

Joe! Joe!” 

The night was so still that he heard her, and stopped. 
She ran along the drive toward him; and he came walking 
back — not fast, not eagerly, as if expecting great things — 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 65 

but firmly, calmly, ready to accept^ what she was willing to 
give. 

If he had run and thrown himself at her feet, perhaps 
she might then have accepted him; but when he came 
trudging back so composedly a revulsion took place in her 
feelings, and when they met she did not quite know why 
she had recalled him, what she wished to say. So she 
stood still, bent her head, and muttered, 

I^m sorry I called, I only wanted to say one thing: 
whether I leave Eingwood or whether I stay, you will let 
me sometimes come up the steps and go over the — the — 
her heart became soft again for a moment, and tears were 
in her voice — I mean, Joe, the dear old mill. 

Is that all?^^ he asked. Yes, as long as I am there 
you can always visit it; but he, if he sets foot on the lad- 
der, 1^11 fling him down. 

You are not angry with me?^^ She looked up into his 
eyes, furtively. She was playing with him, and yet she 
was half in earnest. She hked him, but she laughed at 
him — her elephant. 

‘‘ Angry with your^^ he asked. No, Trip, never. I 
have borne with much from you already. I have borne 
with you this evening, but I am not angry — only. Trip, 
so, so sorry. 

We shall remain friends?^^ 

Always your friend, but not your friend’s friend. ” 

“ And, wherever I may be, you will think of me?” 

I never do other than think of you— think of you with 
such a pain and anguish in my heart that it is like some 
deadly disease which has taken hold of me and is consum- 
ing me.” 

He spoke with averted head. He could not trust him- 
self to meet her eyes. 

Is that all you have to say?” he asked, that you may 
still come and see the mill? That ” — his voice quivered — 
you may some day drive up to the steps in your grand 


66 


LITTLE TU^PEKETY. 


carriage, with your coachman and footmen in liveries, and i 
your brass-mounted harness, and that you may get out of 
your carriage, dressed in pink silk, with gloves and rings, I 
grand as the greatest lady, and so, so, with your parasol I 
over your face, and hat, and feathers — so, so, may come up 
and honor the poor — as you called him once — dull Joe 
Miller?^^ 

Oh, foolish, unhappy Joe! Why did you speak in these 
terms? Why did you call up such a picture before the vain 
girFs mind's eye, and spoil your only chance of winning 
her, just as her heart was yielding? 

Yet is was well, perhaps, that he did thus unconsciously 
thrust her from him. They were not a pair, the elephant 
and the fire-balloon! 

'' Yes," she said, that is all, Joe, that I had to ask. I 
called you back for nothing else." 

Without a farewell he turned and walked away; the same 
steady, heavy tread, in the same way, with his head bent 
down, and with his hands joined behind his back. 

As he walked away she still stood watching him, and 
again did the same regret make itself felt in her heart. Her 
bosom heaved, her eyes filled, her breath came quick, and 
her fingers plucked at the fringe of her pretty light gown. 

He was a dear old fellow — old — he was but young in 
years, though old in thought and feeling. Yes, she did 
like him. How would it be if she were transplanted to 
another part of England, and thrown among total strangers! 
How alone she would feel! How she would long for the 
wise head and the trusty heart of Joe! And now, dimiy, 
she began to see that he had been a better friend to her 
than her mother. Her mother was urging her to sail on 
an wholly unknown sea, whereas she knew all about Eing- 
wood and Joe. She knew how deep, Low still, how storm- 
less was the Pacific Ocean of his heart, and what did she 
know of the character, of the temper, of the principles of 
Mr. Beaufort? Then she recalled Joe's words about her ^ 


LITTLE Tu’PEKirT. 


67 


I 

I 


-future with him. What if that forecast should prove true? 
What if, after all her mother^s efforts and her own ambi- 
tious hopes, the end aimed at should prove a delusion? She 
did not in the least care for Mr. Beaufort. He flattered 
her vanity, but he had not touched her heart. He had laid 
hold of her by the worst fibers of her nature, whereas Joe 
held her by the few fine, subtle, good ones. 

Then she cried out again, Joe! Joe!^^ 

Perhaps he was too far away to hear her voice. He did 
not turn. He was further now than he had been when 
first called and brought back. 

She waited for him to halt in his walk. She waited in 
vain. Then she felt in her pockety by some caprice she 
had slipped (for no reason that she could give) the whistle 
into it, he had made for her some years ago. She put it 
to her lips and whistled; whistled loudly, shrilly, with all 
the strength of her breath. 

Then she paused, and, holding the whistle, waited. She 
waited in vain. Joe walked on. He did not stop, he did 
not hesitate in his walk. 

He knew her mood better than she knew herself. He 
had heard her call, he had heard the whistle, and he walked 
on. 

Then the tears that had risen to her eyes became tears of 
mortified vanity, as they dropped from her lashes. She 
stamped her httle foot on the gravel, and tossed her head. 
He did not really love her, if he would not return when she 
called. Was she not worth the trouble of retracing a few 
steps? Apparently he thought not. There were others 
who valued her higher. 

At that very moment Mr. Beaufort was beside her. 

‘‘ Miss Eedfern,"" he said, I heard your whistle, and 
the trusty canary has flown to your finger. I am here. 
Your mother has been asking for you, and I offered to go 
in quest. May I flatter myself that the whistle was to call 
me?^^ 


68 LITTLE TU^PEI^KY. 

She said nothing. She might be giddy, but she was not 
capable of a lie. 

This is a fine park/^ said Mr. Beaufort, but you 
should see mine in Gloucestershire. This is small, mine 
covers three times the amount of land, and my trees are 
finer, my deer more numerous and fatter. 

‘‘ What,^^ asked Trip, what are your liveries?^^ 

Buff and blue,^^ answered the gentleman. The 
Beaufort colors. The stockings of the footmen — white. 

I heard some one say that your harness was brass- 
mounted. 

Not at all. Silver-mounted, far more stylish. The 
Beaufort harness is all silver-mounted. I could not differ 
from his grace. It would not look well.-’^ 

Have you many carriages, sir?^^ 

‘ ' I have not counted. I believe I pay the two guineas 
tax for four, and how many drags I have for which I pay 
fifteen shillings, I really can not say; I leave all that to my 
steward.’^ 

Is your house very fine?^^ 

I am rebuilding it in palatial style. The first architect 
of the day is employed on it. I have given him carte- 
UancheJ^ 

Is it not rather dull in Gloucestershire?^^ 

‘‘lam in town for the season. Have you ever been to 
the opera? I wonder what Miss Tottenham would say to 
seeing you there in a box opposite her?^^ 

“ I am hardly likely to have the chance,^^ said Trip, and 
sighed. 

“Will you not give me the chance of taking you there? 
I place my fortune, my mansion in Gloucestershire, my 
town house, my person unreservedly at your feet. And — •’i 
he opened a morocco case, and drew forth a ring that 
sparkled in the moonlight, “ allow me to present you with 
this diamond ring, worth only a hundred and fiity pounds, 
as an earnest of my sincerity, 


LITTLE TU^PEKJTY. 


69 


i Since Marguerite was tempted by the casket^ what 
• woman^s heart can resist jewelry? 

Let us go in,^^ said Mr. Beaufort^ and announce our 
engagement to your mother, that charming Mrs. Redfern.^-^ 

That night, when the guests had departed. Trip sat in 
her crushed strawberry on the side of her bed, a very woe- 
begone figure, looking before her without seeing anything. 

Then her mother came in. Oh my!^^ she said, not 
gone to bed yet. What a blessing has come to-day. The 
crushed strawberry did it. Now we may sleep happy; your 
fortune is made. 

Trip started at her mother ^s voice, and, when she came 
over to her daughter. Trip, without rising, threw her arms 
round her' mother^s neck and burst into a storm of tears 
on her bosom. 

‘‘ Mother, dear mother! I think I\e made a dreadful 
mistake. I — I donT care for him, not a bit; and I do — I 
do love Joe Miller. 

Fiddle-de-dee!^^ exclaimed Mrs. Redfern. ‘^Hoity- 
toity! Fortunate you have accepted Mr. Beaufort and 
taken his ring. You canT be off that. What! when you 
can fly as fire-balloon, wish to grovel as a — as a — ^garden 
roller ?^^ 

“ Oh mother! I don^t want to be a fire-balloon.-^^ 

“ Hoity-toity! Not to become a star? My dear, you^ve 
made your bed now and must lie on it. The world turns 
and we must turn round with it. The word that is spoken 
and the lover dismissed are past recall. 


XIIL 

HOW SHE THKEW HEKSELF AWAY. 

“ The marriage is actively to take place next Thursday,^ ^ 
said Mrs. Redfern, meaning, of course, “ actually. Pres- 
ents for the bride poured in from all her friends, Joe only 
excepted. Old Mrs. Tottenham, Miss Tottenham, Mr» 


70 


LITTLE TU^PEHl^Y. 


Tottenham, the housekeeper, the butler, the maids, the 
lodge-keeper~all gave her presents, all personal ornaments, 
or bits of frippery wherewith to adorn her house, Beaufort 
Court in Gloucestershire, in process of erection. 

Mr. Beaufort had a mansion in London, he said, in 
Piccadilly; and he proposed that after the marriage he 
should take his bride to Beaufort House, Piccadilly, 
and then make a tour with her in his yacht along 
the Norwegian coast; the fjords, the glaciers there were 
worth a visit, he said; and, as Trip had never yet been 
abroad, he ventured on a pleasantry, and said that this 
Trip should be with him. So, my dear Mrs. Eedfern, 
you must expect no letter for a month or so. After our re- 
turn we will communicate with you from Gloucester- 
shire.^^ 

Lawk-a-body!^^ said Mrs. Eedfern; ‘‘donT there be 
any postal communications from Norway?^^ 

I only say that you must not expect any, and be agree- 
ably surprised if you hear. You see, my dear mother-in- 
law elect, we shall be in our yacht, and may not come near 
a post-office — if post-offices exist in those parts. 

I shall be afraid sheTl suffer shipwreck; Fve heard 
there^s a great whirlypool in those parts. If you was to 
carry my Lema into that whirlypool, and she were sucked 
in, and sucked down, and never come up again, but all 
broken and done for, I^d cry my eyes out. 

Mr. Beaufort did not answer. Any one who had watched 
his face at that moment would have observed a change in 
it. That he loved Trip was unquestionable. He was be- 
witched by her. He could not take his eyes off her when 
in her society, and, whenever he could, he was in her 
society. 

Was it wonderful? Such a charming, lovely creature as 
this sweet Trip of eighteen is not seen often in a hfe-time. 
She was full of faults; but her very faults were engaging. 
One could see she was vain, and forgive it — she had a 


LITTLE TU^PENKY. 71 

right to be vain; that she was a coquette, and pass it over — 
her coquettishness gave piq nancy to her beauty. 

Who would be his best man asked Mrs. Eedfern, 
and, with a flutter of excitement, Would the duke con- 
descend to be present 

]^o, his grace would not. In fact, the family was much 
offended at the engagement. They regarded it as a me.9- 
alliancey they would not countenance it; that was why Trip 
had received no calls from any of his family — no notes, no 
presents, no notice whatever. However, argued Mr. Beau- 
fort, when he introduced her all this miserable prejudice 
would melt away, the irresistible charm of her beauty and 
manner would win its way, and she would be received with 
affection. 

Mr. Beaufort was very anxious to hurry on the marriage. 
His time, he explained, was precious; his yacht was ready, 
and he was desirous of seizing the most beautiful and suita- 
ble weather for his honey-moon in Norway. So prepara- 
tions were very hasty, a license procured to obviate the 
delay of bans, and the landlord of the Dog and Pheasant 
was invited to act as best man. 

During the time that intervened between the proposal 
and the marriage Trip was restless and excited. During 
the day the trying on of her bridal-dress, the talk of her 
mother, the visits of friends, kept her spirits up; but at 
night, when alone, they sunk, and she had many a cry in 
her little room. She did not care for Mr. Beaufort. Her 
heart was wholly untouched, only her ambition was roused 
and her vanity inflamed. There were two spirits in her — 
one that urged her on in the direction she was taking, the 
other, that spoke in words of warning, to hold her back. 

What did she really know of Mr. Beaufort? What was 
his character? She had not spoken with a single person 
who had known him before he came to the Dog and Pheas- 
ant. She could not wholly put away from her the words 
of Joe, expressive of his mistrust. He was jealous, she 


72 


LITTLE TU^PEI^^HY. 


said, that was why he spoke so strongly, and bitterly, and 
— unjustly. Nevertheless, there were times when a mis- 
giving took possession of her, and she feared the possibihty 
of his words coming true in part. Mr. Beaufort might 
have a bad temper, might be jealous, might drink — be a 
gambler. There was no saying what his qualities were, as 
no one knew anything of his past, but what he chose to re- 
veal himself. 

Mr. Red fern did not interfere. Love-making, marry- 
ing, was woman ^s work, he said; the maid must suit her- 
self; if the spark suited her, she was the person most con- 
cerned, and he was satisfied. Mrs. Redfern believed 
everything that Mr. Beaufort said, and did not dream of 
doubting it. She had long looked for this happy day, and 
now it was come. The right gallant turns up in fairy 
tales and novels. 

But Trip had one friend who thought of all this, though 
he did not know how to help her— to help her against her- 
self. He also asked himself again and again. Who is this 
Mr. Beaufort who has a duke in his family? It ought not 
to be hard to discover if there be a duke of that name. 
After much silent pondering of the matter, he went to the 
parsonage with his little bill for fiour and barley- meal in 
his hand. The rector liked to have his accounts settled 
quarterly. 

The rector had a great respect for Joe, who was so steady 
a parishioner — never drank, and gave no trouble. 

Joe received his money for his account, but did not leave 
at once. 

Please, sir,^^ said he, have you a book about all the 
lords and ladies in England?^^ 

Certainly, Mr. Weston, you mean a ^ Peerage. ^ 

‘‘ITl tell you what I want,^^ said Joe, in his blunt, 
straightforward way. There’s Trip Redfern is going to 
marry a Mr. Algernon Beaufort, who says there is a duke 
in his family, and I want to find out if it is so.’’ 


LITTLE TU^PEiriTY. 


73 


Pshaw!^^ laughed the rector^ it is sure to be right. 
Beaufort — duke. There is a Duke of Beaufort, but the 
family name is not Beaufort, but Fitzroy-Somerset. Here 
is the ‘ Peerage,^ look for yourself. 

Joe looked at the book, turned the pages, and was more 
puzzled than before. 

Then those of the duke^s family are not Beauforts at 
all?^^ 

Certainly not; Pitzroy-Somersets. Did Mr. Beaufort 
claim relationship to the Duke of Beaufort 
Joe rubbed his head. 

That I canT say. All I know is, he told Mrs. Eedfern 
that there was a duke in the family. 

He did not say what duke?^^ 

‘‘I think not. 

Joe saw his only chance of finding out about Tripps in- 
tended husband disappearing. 

I fear I can not help you. I do not know who can 
help you. But, my good fellow, every other person you 
meet pretends a connection with some peer of the realm; 
that is no new thing, though the connection may be hard 
to prove, perhaps impossible. But why are you particu- 
larly interested in the matter?^^ 

Again Joe rubbed his head. 

Well, sir. Trip and I have been old friends, very fast 
friends, and Mrs. Eedfern believes whatever she is told, 
and Mr. Eedfern donT care, so Trip has no one to think 
for her welfare but me. ^ ^ 

The rector shook his head. 

It is sure to be all right,^^ he said. He was a sanguine 
man. Don^t you bother yourself. As for the duke in 
the family, I only hope it will not be Duke Humphrey, and 
that Trip will not be invited to dine with him. ^ 

Joe did not understand the allusion. He walked back to 
his mill thinking, depressed, uneasy, and puzzled. 

What more could he do? Nothing. He was impatient 


74 


LITTLE TU^PEl^KY. 


because he could do no more, and while he was turning 
over in his head how to find out the antecedents of Mr. 
Beaufort the marriage took place. 

As the coachman with white favors drove the happy pair 
away from the keeper's lodge, past the windmill, the sails 
of which were flying briskly, a little hand was thrust 
through the carriage window, waving a white handkerchief 
— the handkerchief was not dry. Then a little face looked 
out, and looked up at the mill — a wistful face with very 
red eyes and quivering lips; and long after the carriage 
had passed the same face looked back at the dear old mill. 

Did Trip think that her friend Joe was at the door, or 
up at the window of the corn-chamber? She looked at one, 
then at the other, but saw no white head. Yet she thought 
he might have come to the door to wave his cap to her. 
Surely he could not be so uninterested in her fortunes as 
not to leave his work for a moment to wish her God speed! 
Surely he was not so unforgiving that he still harbored 
anger in his sullen heart against her— her who now looked 
up for his forgiveness?" 

Joe had seen her. He was not uninterested in her fort- 
une. He harbored no anger against her. But he would 
not show himself. He stood back, with his arms folded 
over his breast, and his head down, and he had two lines 
on his cheeks from which the flour had been washed away. 
And hark? Tingle, tingle, tingle! The empty hopper is 
ringing, ringing, ringing, and still Joe stands with bent 
head and folded arms, and he does not hear the bell for 
once in his life, and the stones grind- themselves and grind 
sparks out of their flinty ribs. 


LITTLE TU^PEKKY. 


75 


XIV. 

HOW SHE BEOAH TO EIHD IT OUT. 

Is it a long voyage to Xorway?^^ asked Trip at last, 
timidly. 

They were far from Ringwood, and Ringmoor Mill, and 
the little church and cluster of houses and elms of the vil- 
lage. 

We shall stay a bit in Lun^on,^^ he answered. 

There was a change in her husband^s voice, in his intona- 
tion, that' surprised her. 

In your London house 

Ah!^"^ he laughed. Well — yes, in my Lun^on house. 

Xow, my dear Trip, donH you get the indigestion if the 
dinner is not as high seasoned as pleases your mother. 

What do you mean, Algernon? It was with an effort 
that she called him by his Christian name. 

You will find that out all too soon,^^ he replied, some-’ 
what uneasily. I am sorry, dear girl, that things will 
not be quite as you might wish. In fact, Beaufort House, 
Piccadilly, is in the hands of the house-painters, and the 
smell of the white lead is deleterious, so I have thought it 
as well to take lodgings. 

But — we go to Norway to-morrow ?^^ she said, looking 
round at him, and this was the first time she ventured to 
do this since she had stepped into the carriage with him. 
His face was troubled, he took her hand and kissed it, ther 
looked out of the window. 

Norway must wait,^^ he said with averted countenance 
Then he turned, and with a laugh said, Perhaps JericR 
will suit you better. 

She could not make it out. 

Pve been considering that perhaps you are a ba 
sailor, and would be upset at sea, and the barometer hi 


76 


LITTLE TU PENNY. 


been falling, and I see by the paper that the storm signals 
are up, and so we had better postpone our departure. 

Till the storm is overr^^ 

Oh, yes! till the storm is over.'^^ 

What was the meaning of the alteration in his manner 
and tone of voice, even in the appearance his face wore? 
They were in the train. He made her get out at a station 
where there were branches and cross lines in all directions. 
They changed platforms, took fresh tickets, got out again; 
had a cab. Took the Metropolitan; then another cab, and 
at last drew up. 

^‘^Your lodgings seem very difficult to reach,^^ said 
Trip. 

They are sequestered,^^ he answered; more suitable 
for lovers. 

The house at which the cab deposited Trip and her hus- 
band was a small half villa at Lower Norwood, in a new 
road half made, and where the row of houses was only half 
built. The garden was uncultivated, a small patch in 
front of the door; the turf was not even green. The en- 
trance door was fresh painted and stuck. When it was 
opened admission was obtained into a small hall, so narrow 
that two could ill walk abreast in it. The mean stairs 
were steep and uncarpeted. There was accommodation 
only one one side — the right side of the house; a blank wall 
divided this half -house from the other half -house. There 
was a parlor on the ground floor, and a small dining-room 
in the rear, opening into a yard. The furniture was of 
the plainest description and sparse. Only one servant ap- 
peared, an ill-favored, elderly, small-pox-marked woman. 

Trip was puzzled and frightened, and very ready to cry. 
She was afraid to ask questions, and afraid to express her 
disappointment. 

For supper there were mutton chops and boiled potatoes, 
and cold rice pudding; no wine, but ale and whisky-and- 
water. 


LITTLE TU^PEKNT. 


77 


Certainly the style of living was better at Eingwood, 
though the Tottenham s did belong to trade, and had no 
pretense to a duke in the family. 

That Mr. Beaufort was very fond of Trip was the only 
reality of her dream, and it was the reality she could best 
have spared. She did not care for him; indeed, as her 
marriage drew on, she had felt a shrinking from him, and 
now that she was married awoke to the fact that she dis- 
hked him. 

There are some persons with whom you may pass a score 
of years, and whom you may meet every day, and yet you 
get no nearer to knowing them. You know their exteriors, 
every line of their faces, every mole and blemish in the 
skin; you know their tones of voice; their walk, but you 
never get within, to know their true natures, to feel that 
you have touched a pulse, not a bit of cloth or sable 
jacket. 

There are other individuals whom we fear to look into. 
We know that some day or other the peep will be given, 
and we shall see what we had much rather not. We are 
glad to know their exterior only, and dread the day when 
they shall become transparent to us. 

Some such a feeling was in the heart of Trip. She be- 
gan to fear her husband, to suspect that under the surface 
she should come on, not a hidden treasure, but dead men^s 
bones and rottenness. 

Day after day passed and Trip was very dull. She asked 
if the !hrorway excursion were finally abandoned. He said 
it was so; but gave no reason. Had the storm that was 
expected missed its course? He did not know. 

Were they going into Gloucestershire? He laughed at 
the question. The foundations of the house were not laid. 
The estate was in Cloudland. 

Occasionally he took her out. Once to the Tower, once 
to the Crystal Palace; but he did not like visiting public 


78 


LITTLE TU^PEK3^Y. 


resorts apparently, for he seemed uneasy when there, took 
no pleasure in the sights, and was impatient to get away. ]| 
Trip asked her husband if she might write home; as she" 
was not going abroad she would like to send a line to herV, 
mother. He peremptorily refused to allow her to write, ij 
Hot for a month, mind you; your mother expects no let- J 
ter, and will not be uneasy about you. Let her believe you i 
are in Horway. What matters?^ ^ 

But why this mystery, Algernon 

Why — mystery he rubbed his cMn. There is no ^ 
mystery. You don^t understand. I have objections. My ; 
friends and relatives may call, and I donT want ^em to ^ 
come in and find your mother here. If you wrote she^d be 
fumbling in with her airs and grimaces. 

Trip was hurt. 

Why do you go out so much and leave me alone?^^ 

I have business, and business must be attended to.”^^ 

What is your business 

Hothing that you can understand. 

I insist on knowing, said Trip, with spirit. 

He looked at her with surprise. 

Well, then, I have political occupation, am secretary 
to a Liberal club; we have to work for elections, and see 
and arrange with agents, organize meetings, and so on. 
What do you know about politics? Are you much the 
wiser now?^^ 

Ho; Trip had to admit that she was not. 

Trip only half believed her husband when he said this. 
She was ashamed of herself for the mistrust which grew on 
her, and made her doubt everything he said, and every- 
thing he had said to her. Hot one of his promises had he 
fulfilled. His boastful words had been utterly false. He 
would not suffer her to leave the house by herself. He 
pretended that she would lose her way. But, she argued, 
unless she went out and about, and did lose herself occa- 
sionally, how was she ever to find her way at all? His 


LITTLE TU^PEHKY. 


79 


hours were irregular and strange. He was out mostly at 
night, but not always; sometimes he had friends to see him 
on business— political business, he said, and they spent the 
night with him and spirits and water and tobacco in the 
back parlor, the shutters of which were fastened. 

After he had been out all night, he slept all day. 

Trip was surprised at the amount of coal-ash which was 
left in the grate in the morning after the party of politi- 
cians had sat up all night. She asked her husband how 
they had come to consume so much, and put the stove in 
such a mess. He turned off her question with a jest, that 
as they were all Liberals they had dealt liberally with the 
scuttle. 

One morning, when in this room that looked out on the 
back premises. Trip found in the drawers a plan. She 
looked at it carefully and curiously, and was surprised to 
find that it was a plan of Eingwood Hall. She was con- 
vinced that it was so, all the rooms were arranged in the 
same order as those of the hall. She took it to her husband. 

This is Eingwood,^'' she said. 

He started. Where did you find it? What have you 
been about ?^^ 

I found it in the back room. What is it for?^^ 

Oh, I took it when shown over the place. I said then 
it was for building purposes. 

But you are not building in Gloucestershire, you have 
no Gloucestershire property.'’^ 

Who told you that? How clever you are. I intend to 
build some day, so keep the plan by me. 

That is not the plan you drew. That was in your 
pocket-book. 

Well— I made a clean copy on paper. Look^here, 
Trip! I will not be spied on and cross-examined. I give 
you fair warning, I will not allow it. Mischief will come 
of it.^^ 

Trip soon perceived that she was . watched by the woman 


80 


LITTLE TU^PEKUY. 


who did all the house- work, when her husband was away. 
This woman was clearly initiated into the secrets of her 
master, secrets which were kept from herself, the wife. 
This made Trip jealous and suspicious. She particularly 
disliked this maid, who had an unpleasant face, and was 
dirty. The woman did not take the pains to be civil to 
Trip. She viewed her with malevolence, and was some- 
times disobedient and occasionally rude. Trip remon- 
strated with her husband. She said that she could not 
endure the woman, and would not live in the house with 
her any longer. 

All right, answered Mr. Beaufort, ITl give Nelly a 
month^s warning. Put up with her for a few weeks, and 
ITl engage you another. Servants are hard to get, and we 
should be in a prtety plight if left without any. 

Oh, let her go!^^ entreated Trip. Let her go at 
once, I will gladly do her work myself, for the pleasure of 
getting rid of her. ^ ^ 

‘‘ What!^^ exclaimed her husband. You work as a 
menial, after having married me? Not to be thought of 
for Mrs. Beaufort. ^ ^ 

Trip, who had been so free, was a prisoner; so lively, was 
now pensive; so fond of singing and skipping and talking, 
now sat still in her chair, with her hands in her lap, look- 
ing at the plain paper on the wall in front of her, doing 
nothing, and without the heart to sing, and with no one to 
whom to speak. 

She put on her pretty crushed-strawberry dress and black 
mittens and pink bonnet-hat, and looked at herself in the 
glass; then threw away her bonnet on the bed, cast herself 
into the chair again, and the tears ran silently down her 
cheeks. 

Poor Prip! She was beginning to find out that she had 
been deceived in everything which she had expected. 


LITTLE TU^PENKY. 


81 


XV. 

HOW SHE BECAME AWARE OF IT. 

Trip had no money in her pocket. She had started 
from home with five pounds which her father had given 
her. 

Although your husband be rich^ Trip/^ Dick had said; 

still it^s just as well you should have something of your 
very own^ and not have to ask him for every trifle you may 
need. And, Trip; if ever you want aught, and are shy of 
asking him, I^m your dad, in velveteen and gaiters, and 
Fve good wages, and the disposal of some of the ganie as 
a perquisite, and can put away a pound or two; and you 
must ask me at any time should you want money unbe- 
known to your grand husband in broadcloth and silk 
hats.^^ 

Now this five pounds was gone. It had been given to 
Trip in a note, not in gold. She had not changed it; she 
had had no occasion, no opportunity, to change it; and one 
day — ^it was the very day after her marriage — Mr. Beaufort 
borrowed it of her. 

She did not like at once to remind him of the money, 
though he had asked the loan for ten minutes to pay for 
coals. But, when a week passed and nothing was said of 
the five pounds, she ventured timidly to recall it to Alger- 
non. He laughed. My dear Trip, what can you want 
money for? I pay for everything. You have no bills, you 
buy nothing. Ask me for anything you want, and you 
shall have it. 

ask for the five pounds back,^^ she said, with some 

spirit. 

That,^^ said he, putting his hand in his pocket and 
drawing forth some silver, ‘^that is not possible just now; 
I have not been to the bank and drawn any money out. I 


82 


LITTLE TU^PEKNT. 


have only seven -and-six in silver, tenpence in copper, and 
thirty shillings in gold. ^ 

Then let me have the thirty shillings. 

My precious Trip — what for? It will force me to go 
to-day, which will be most inconvenient, to town, to my 
bankers. 

Then the seven-and-six, on account. 

That I want for the baker, who is demanding his ac- 
count. We have had pound cakes as well as bread, and 
tea-cake, too.^^ 

Then give me the tenpence in coppers. 

I must buy some stamps; I am run out of Queen^s 
heads. 

That is precisely what I want money for,^* said Trip, 
testily. I have neither paper nor envelopes nor stamps. 

I have nothing to do with my time; I want to write let- 
ters. 

Do you?^^ asked Mr. Beaufort, with some sharpness. 

Have I not told you that I will not have letters sent home 
or anywhere for a month? Wait till the month^s end, and 
then you may write as much as you hke.^^ 

But why not now?^^ 

Because I will not allow it.^^ He was angry, and an 
ugly expression came in his face which frightened Trip. 

Mind what I have already said. You disobey me at your 
peril. ^ 

Then he left the room. 

Instead of crushing her with his threatening words and 
tone, he had irritated her. Trip had been accustomed to 
have her own way all her life as far as it had run, and con- 
trariety was what she could not endure. 

She did not cry; she sat brooding, with pursed lips and 
contracted brows, and a very angry, rebellious light in her 
eyes. She sat twirling her diamond ring on her pretty* 
delicate finger, the ring worth, according to Mr. Beaufort, 
a hundred and fifty pounds. Had he lied to her about that 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 


83 


ring, as he had lied about the Norway journey, and the 
Court in Gloucestershire, and the house in Piccadilly? She 
would like to know. She would be guided by this. This 
was a matter on which she could satisfy herself; and, of 
course, there was still just a possibility that he was really 
prevented from cruising to Norway as proposed, that he 
had some property in Gloucestershire, and a house under- 
going repairs in Piccadilly. 

So she resolved to put this matter to a test, a crucial 
test, and act according as it gave reply. If Mr. Beaufort 
had been false in this he was false in everything. She 
would write to her father, tell him everything, and beg him 
to come to London and come to an explanation with her 
husband. 

She was then without any shoes on her feet' she sup- 
posed they were below in the back kitchen. The maid, 
Nelly, had not brought them up, and she had taken them 
down overnight or early in the morning to clean. 

So, in her stocking-soles, she stole to the head of the 
kitchen stairs, not to call the sulky Nelly, but to fetch 
them for herself. 

She heard her husband and the servant talking together 
in a low voice in the kitchen; this angered her. Her little 
shell of a left ear was burning. They were talking about 
her. He had been so unfair to her that she excused her- 
self for being underhand with him. She crept to the bot- 
tom of the stone steps to listen. 

I say you^re a fool,^^ said the maid. Whatever can 
have possessed you to bring this wax doll into the house to 
ruin us all?^^ 

I could not help myself, she is so confoundedly pretty. 
She bewildered me, and her mother threw her at my head.^^ 

You are old enough to know better, growled Nelly. 

If Twas yourself alone were endangered you might go 
the whole way and be welcome; but it^s the lot of us, as 
you know well enough. 


84 


LITTLE TU^PEUKY. 


‘^Nonsense, Nelly/ ^ said Mr. Beaufort, she^s such a_ 
fool she can do no hurt. 

She^s not such a fool as you suppose/^ remarked the 
woman, and may play us an ugly trick yet.^^ 

She must not leave the house. 

I\e taken care of that,^'’ said Nelly; IVe took away 
her boots, and she^ll scarce go abroad in her slippers. 
Still, that is neither here nor there; what I say is, that you 
have run us all into great risk by bringing her here.-^^ 

Well, well, Nelly, it ain^t for long.-"^ 

No, it is not for long; but it may be just too long for 
our interests. 

Then Trip heard her husband^s step, as though he were 
coming to the stairs, and she stole back as she had descend- 
ed. What was the meaning of this? 

To come to some understanding, she asked for her boots. 
The woman said she was sorry, she had put one pair to dry 
over the kitchen range, and the fire had been too hot, it 
had burned them. The soles had warped and curled so 
that the threads were torn, and the top-leather had parted 
from them. 

Where is the other pair?^^ 

The rats have eaten holes in them. I left them on 
the sink in the scullery, and the beasts came up from the 
drains — they do, of a night, after the potato-parings.'^^ 

Let me see the two pairs. 

Very sorry, but, because they were spoiled, I chucked 
them away into the ash-pit, and the dust-cart has took them 
off this very morning. 

So I have no boots to go out in!^’ 

None at all."^ 

Trip turned to her husband, who stood at the window, 
drumming with his fingers on the glass. 

‘‘ Algernon, will you go out and send me a shoe-maker, 
or some shoes to fit on approval ?^^ 

Yes, my dear, I will go at once/^ 


LITTLE TU^PEISTKY. 85 

He left the house; hours passed^ but no boot-maker ap- 
peared. 

Trip was very angry; she was being fooled. She called 
the woman to her, and bade her go for what was wanted. 

I durstn^t/" said Nelly, '' not till the master be come 
in. How do I know but he may have spoke with some 
one in Oxford Street, or the Strand, or Regent Street? You 
must cultivate patience. When he comes home he will 
bring the shoes with him. Out this way the shoes and 
boots be all bad, not fit for such as you to wear. The 
master knows that; that is why he has gone into London for 
them. He likes to see you stylish shod. 

Tripps blood was up. She was not deceived. There was 
a leer in the woman'^s eye that mocked her. 

She waited till Nelly was gone, then she hastily opened 
the front-door and walked forth in her slippers, and with- 
out a bonnet: she would not go upstairs to fetch one. After 
she had reached the head of the street or road in which was 
the house, she turned and saw the woman following, watch- 
ing her. 

She went on, head in air and with fiaming cheeks, into 
a main thoroughfare, where were shops, and went into the 
first jeweler ^s and showed him her ring, and asked him to 
lend her something on it. 

He laughed and shook his head. The stones were false; 
he would advance nothing on it. It was rubbish. 

Trip left the shop. Her heart beat furiously with shame 
and wrath. Before her was the pock-marked face of the 
woman, puckered with laughter, looking in at the shop- 
door. 

Well, so you^ve not got money for boots yet,^^ she 
said. ‘‘ Come home and be peaceable. Wait till the mas- 
ter's return. He^ll be in presently, and then you can have 
your boots — and hook it.^^ 


86 


LITTLE TU'PENI^Y. 


XVI. 




HOW SHE SAW THE SILVER BARROWS AGAIH. 

Trip returned to the half villa angry, unhappy, clistracj 
ed. The house, of which the lodgings occupied by her and 
her husband formed half, was in a row of detached villas. 
Two or three were let, others were to be let, just built, 
others in course of erection. The half -house adjoining the 
lodging of the Beauforts was unoccupied. Beaufort House' 
Piccadilly, had resolved itself into Ho. 4, Woodbine Cot- 
tages, Lower Norwood. That where she was was Lower 
Norwood Trip did not know. She knew she was some- 
where in the suburbs of London, but on which side of the 
Thames she was unaware. 

She retreated to her room, and locked herself in. She 
was very indignant at the treatment to which she had beenj 
subjected, at the deception that had been played on her,'^ 
troubled at the mystery which surrounded her, resolved to 
come to an explanation with her husband, and insist on be- 
ing allowed to communicate with her parents. 

What was Mr. BeauforPs business? That he had some, 
she made no doubt. Who were his companions? On what 
were they engaged at night? Why did she see no one? 
Why did none of her own sex visit her? Why was she 
watched, and every effort made to keep her a prisoner in 
the house? These were questions that worked to the sur- 
face in her mind. They were questions that must be an- 
swered; she would insist on having them satisfactorily an- 
swered. i 

Trip may have been foolishly brought up, reared to love | 
show, to think much of herself, to be greedy of admiration, ' 
but there was character in her — good stuff that had not j 
been brought out. She had shown determination in the i 


LITTLE TU^PE]Sri?'T. 


87 


j matter of the ride on the sails of the windmill. That 
! showed how she could stick to an idea when she had got 
hold of it, and carry it out. 

For the first week Trip had been bewildered, and unable 
to take her bearings. Cast into a new world, she had been 
inclined to lean on her husband, to trust him, though dis- 
appointed. But she speedily found that he was not to be 
trusted, that she could trust no one but herself. If she 
leaned on him, he would let her fall. She must gather up 
all her resolution, and, under the strange circumstances in 
which she found herself, act for herself. 

She sat in her room thinking, but unable to decide on her 
course, further than to wait her husband's return and seek 
aii explanation. What steps to take should that explana- 
tion not be satisfactory, she left for the future to decide. 

Hours passed, and he did not return. She asked the 
woman when he was likely to be home, and then was angry 
with herself for having asked the question — ^for having ad- 
mitted that this person was more in his confidence than her- 
self. The surly woman gave Trip her meals as usual, and 
the poor young wife made vain efforts to swallow them. 

Ten o'clock came, and her husband had not returned. 

Trip ran down-stairs, and told the woman, Nelly, not to 
sit up, she would. 

‘‘ Sit up!" sneered, Nelly. '' You'll have to sit up all 
night, then. He won't be back till morning, if he comes 
at all, and when he comes he won't want you." 

Trip flared up. You insolent woman, how dare you 
speak to me like that? You know where Mr. Beaufort is? 
Where is he?" 

Then the woman put her hands on her hips, looked at 
the poor girl, and burst into derisive laughter. 

Unable to endure her offensive conduct longer. Trip ran 
upstairs and threw herself on her bed, and burst into bitter 
weeping through humiliation and distress. 

Now she remembered Joe's warning, how he had bid 


88 


LITTLE TU^PEKISTY. 


her beware of the man who had bewitched her with appeals i 
to her vanity. Now she felt what a fatal mistake she had 
made in rejecting faithful, solid Joe^s offer. It was too | 
late. As she had made her bed, so she must lie on it. ‘ 
But, oh! what a bed of thorns it was already proving itself , 
to be. * 

Oh, that dear old windmill! The happy hours she had 
spent in it, the creaking of the timber in the stress of the 
wind, the whir of the wings, the grind of the wheels, the 
throb of the shifter, the rattle of the inking-box. How all 
these sounds came back to her in the night ! She had low- 
ered the gas to a pea, and lay on her bed thinking, her 
brain wide awake in nervous excitation. 

Oh, the pleasant smell of the flour, and the bean-fleld in 
June in full blossom! 

How sweet Joe^s honey had been! No honey like it in 
the world. He kept in the mill some bread and a plate of 
comb, and he had allowed Trip alvrays, when she came to 
the mill, to eat his bread and honey. 

She thought of the little house with its tile roof, and the 
sun-flowers and hives; and the willows about the garden 
growing out of the edge of the dike, and of the duckweed, 
and the white shining flowers studding the water like stars 
studding the sky. Then she left the bed, and in the half- 
darkness groped in her work-box till she found her whistle; 
and now she took a piece of string and fastened it to the 
whistle, and hung it round her neck. It should hang 
there, a dear remembrance of happy old times, of innocent, 
sunny childhood, when she had no sorrows, no dark and 
dreadful future before her. 

She threw herself on the bed again and found her pillow 
wet with tears. She put the whistle to her lips, not to pipe 
loud on it, but to try it, to call up old associations. Alas! 
the whistle would not act, the back was split. She had 
piped the last call on it that night in the park when Joe 
had refused to return, piped her last chance away; now the 


LITTLE TU^PEIIIIY. 


89 


voice was gone from the whistle, and with its failure it ap- 
peared to Trip as if every hope was gone from her. Who 
could help her now? Algernon Beaufort was her lawful 
husband and protector. What could Joe do for her? or 
her father and mother? 

Oh, the shame of having to return to Ring wood with the 
confession that she had been duped! How could she face 
Joe? How bear the jeers of those who had encouraged her, 
yet had secretly envied her, and would rejoice over her dis- 
appointment? 

Eleven o^clock had struck. Twelve — midnight was 
past. One o^ clock. Still her husband was not returned. 
She knew that the woman Nelly was below, awake, and 
waiting for her master^s return. What was more, she was 
making up a great fire in the stove in the dining-room. 

Nelly was much older than Mr. Beaufort, very ugly, but 
her expression was much more ugly than her features. She 
certainly was wholly in his confidence; and he must as- 
suredly be afraid of offending her, or he would not have 
suffered her to behave rudely to his wife, Trip was sure 
that Mr. Beaufort loved her; she was quite as sure that she 
did not love him, never had loved him — and she was linked 
to him, by her own act, for life. 

Two 0^ clock. 

Nelly was at the fire stirring it, adding coal and coke. 
Then Trip heard a soft step on the stair, or rather the 
creak of the stair under an ascending heavy tread, and once 
the rattle of a loose bar in the baluster. Trip heard the 
step at her door. Nelly had come there to listen if her 
mistress were asleep, to see if the room were dark. Ap- 
parently satisfied, Nelly descended with less caution than 
she had mounted. The woman thought Trip a young, 
vain, pretty fool, not requiring much watching, incapable 
of giving much trouble. 

Three o^ clock. 

Still no signs of the return of Mr. Beaufort. Where 


90 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 


could he be? What could he be doing? Why should he| 
conceal his movements from his own wife? | 

Trip rose from the bed and went to the window; at thefl 
head of the row was a gas-light, none lower. Another | 
would be added, may be, when the row was completed and T 
the houses let. The road was bad, furrowed with the i 
wheels of carts and traction engines that brought building | 
materials to the newly erecting houses. 

Surely the new day was dawning! There was a raw light 
behind that house opposite which was uninhabited. Surely 
there was some discerning of the bushes and rails Of the lit- 
tle garden I 

All at once, as Trip was considering this, a conveyance 
stopped at the gate, and four men jumped down, one stood 
by the horse, and three lifted something from the trap and 
carried it to the house. E’elly^had opened the door, no 
bell rang. Trip heard steps below in the little hall. Then 
the horse and trap departed; the door of the house was 
bolted and locked, and Trip heard the tread of the three 
men who had entered the house go into the back parlor. 
What they carried was heavy, that she knew by the weight 
of their tread. She had opened her door, and held it ajar, 
listening. 

ISTot a word was spoken by Nelly or by the men, one of 
whom was probably Mr. Beaufort. 

Trip seated herself on the side of her bed considering 
what she should do. Her heart beat fast and spasmodical- 
ly. She was, she felt, on the threshold of a discovery which 
might bring on her unutterable wretchedness, and yet — it 
would be a relief to the unendurable suspense to know the 
truth. What should she do? Wait till morning, and then 
question her husband, telling him frankly what she had 
done and seen? Then he might evade her questions as he 
had evaded them hitherto. 

Would it not be better for her to act at once, go down- 


I LITTLE TU^PEKIsTT. 91 

itairs arid confront him with his friends and Nelly, and de- 
jaand an immediate explanation? 

' Trip stood up. Her determination was made. Softly, 
silently, as Nelly had stolen up the stairs, did Trip now^ 
steal down. There was no light in the passage below; but- 
a little gray dawn crept in through the staircase window. 
She reached the hall and saw a light under the back parlor 
door. She rested her hand on the handle for one moment - 
of irresolution. Then, as she had had the strength once to ^ 
launch herself on her aerial flight, so did she now launch^ 
herself on this excursion into the mystery that went on in 
her own house. She opened the door and stepped boldly in. 

Before her, with terror on their faces, stood three men in 
rough coats, and one, though disguised, she recognized as 
her husband. There also was Nelly. The Are in the stove 
was glowing red and over it was a crucible. 

On the table was spread out a quantity of silver plate — 
kettles, candlesticks, cream- jugs, spoons, forks, platters, 
and ranged, as though in mockery, one after the other, all 
round the table rim, twenty-four little silver wheelbar- 
rows, inscribed Propera. 

Trip uttered a cry, The Kingwood plate 


XVII. 

ONCE MOEE. 

A FOETNIGHT had passed since Trip had made the dis- 
covery that her husband was one of a gang of burglars, 
and that this gang had taken the Eingwood plate. 

It was night. The wind was high, blowing from the 
north-west over the clay -land level, and roaring in the trees 
of the park. The only light visible is in the mill. Al- 
though night, the sails are flying, the miller is at work, the 
stones are grinding, the shifter is shaking out the fine flour 


92 


LITTLE TU^PEISTKY. 


from the thick. The light from the mill traces a broken 
thread of fire in the dike, broken because of the duck-weed 
which covers the water. 

There are stars in the sky, no moon; but the stars suffer 
eclipse from the great clouds that are rolled over the 
heavens by the wind, then shine forth again bright and 
frosty. Away in the direction of London is a dull red 
auroral glow, the refiection of the great city in the haze 
that overarches it. 

Along the London road from the city creeps a female 
figure, feebly, limpingly. As she comes to the gate lead- 
ing to the mill she looks up at the light and stands trem- 
bling and sobbing — then she creeps on again, foot-sore, 
limb-weary, toward the park. 

Half an hour after she is at the keeper’s lodge, knocking 
timidly, then louder, but ever in vain at the door. Then 
she goes to the window and looks in, and can just make out 
that the interior is bare, no curtains, no blinds, no sign of 
the house being inhabited. She falls on the doorstep and 
weeps, and vainly knocks again, but the knock sounds hol- 
low. There is, there can be no response. Mr. and Mrs. 
Eedfern are no longer there. After the burglary at the 
Hall, the keeper fell under suspicion for having introduced 
Mr. Beaufort, whom the detectives pronounced to be the 
head of a well-known gang which the police have been un- 
able to break up or apprehend. 

Mr. Tottenham was a peremptory man, and, when he 
saw that the keeper’s family had facilitated the execution 
of the robbery, Eedffern was dismissed immediately, at a 
week’s notice, without a character. The same fate attend- 
ed the butler, Mr. Thomson, and the housekeeper, Mrs. 
Podgings. 

Two hours later the same feeble, footsore figure retraced 
her steps, and came against the gate leading to the mill. 
Trip it was; but altered, broken in spirit and in body; Trip, 
now utterly alone in the world 1 


LITTLE TU^PENE’Y. 


93 


She could walk no further. Her house-shoes were worn 
off her feet; her stocking-soles, the soles of her feet worn 
through. She was in her crushed strawberry gown, with a 
dark cloak over it, the crisp, clean, bright dress of a few 
weeks ago was now crumpled, soiled, draggled, like the 
spirit of her who wore it. 

' From the moment she had uttered that cry, The Ring- 
wood plate consciousness had deserted her. She could 
recall a fierce face, white, with glistening eyes, and a pair 
of false whiskers half fallen off, before her, and a hand 
raised, grasping a silver candlestick, a vivid, horrible, 
haunting sight, and she remembered nothing more till she 
woke in her bedroom with an aching head, that was band- 
aged, and with a smell of vinegar in her nose. 

She was on her bed; she turned her head and saw blood 
on the pillow, and turned again and saw the face of Nelly. 

You^re come round at last, are you?^^ said the woman. 

Well, you^ll have to get round quick. I ain^t going to 
nurse you forever. You never ought to have been brought 
here. 

By degrees poor Trip learned that she had been knocked 
down and stunned; that a quarrel had been the result be- 
tween her husband and his pals who had struck her; 
and that the three men had made off with the plate out of 
the country, or, at all events, into safe quarters. The 
house had been cleared of what little furniture there was, 
only Nelly remained to watch Trip. Mr. Beaufort, as he 
called himself, and who really loved the poor girl, had 
ordered Nelly, one of the gang, to be with Trip till she re- 
covered, not only for Tripp’s sake, but for the safety of the 
party. She was to be kept under guard, not allowed to 
leave the house for some days till the gang escaped, and 
danger of pursuit from information furnished by Trip was 
over. 

Accordingly Nelly had nursed and attended to Trip till 
she was sufhciently recovered to leave, and then had turned 


94 


LITTLE TU^PEIS’E'Y. 


her out of the house, which she also deserted. The house 
had been taken under a false name with false references, 
and had been made the headquarters of the gang, where 
they had defaced and melted the silver and jewelry which 
they obtained. After the great burglary at Eingwood, it 
was advisable to shift quarters. 

This, then, was the end of poor Tripps ambitious flight. 
She was married to a ruffian who, if he came into the hands 
of justice, as was inevitable before long, would suffer penal 
servitude. That his name of Beaufort was false she was 
well assured; what his real name was she did not know. 
The wife of a professional burglar now, the wife of a con- 
vict hereafter! She had flown high, and great was the fall. 

Trip stood at the gate of the mill. 

She could go no further. She had no money. She had 
no shoes. She had no friends, no home, no food — no name 
even; only a little feeble pride in her still held her together. 
She had passed the Eose; she had felt half inclined to go 
in there and cast herself on the pity of the landlady, but 
her pride withheld her. No: there was one, and one only 
who could help her efficiently, to whom she could appeal, 
who would not upbraid her, who would screen her, and deal 
prudently with her. 

She must go to her friend — to Joe. She might do that 
without loss to her self-respect. She was a married woman, 
and could be nothing henceforth to Joe. A weak, broken 
friend appealing for help to return to her father and 
mother, that was all she was and all she wanted. He could 
tell her where her parents were, and he would restore her 
to them. 

So she entered through the gate and wearily crept to the 
foot of the stair. She recalled Joe^s words. Was she, as 
he had said, coming there to revisit the mill in her splendid 
equipage, with brass-mounted harness and liveried servants, 
in pink silk and feathers and lace? 

She came in a crushed stained old strawberry gown, with 


LITTLE TUPPENNY. 


95 


a bandaged head, and a tear-stained face, and a broken 
spirit, her feet waysore, and her pride in the mire. 

The great black mill stood up against the far-away red 
glare of London, but not altogether dark, for above was a 
light. Joe had a paraffine-lamp in the flour-chamber, and 
it was so placed as to shine through the door, and down the 
ladder-stair. 

Overhead the great clouds lumbered by. The wind was 
cold. Trip was thinly clad, and wearied out. She shiv- 
ered. She looked wistfully up the stair, the light from the 
lamp lighted every step, and it seemed to her like Jacobis ' 
ladder, leading up out of the bleak, black, wretched world 
into warmth and light and rest. 

She saw no one in the mill; no flgure moving in the 
flour-chamber, sacking the flour. Was it deserted? That 
could not be, for the sails were flying and the stones were 
grinding. 

She held to the rail, and tried to climb the stair. She 
would reach the well-known chamber, and throw herself in 
a corner beside the flour-box, or between the sacks, and 
wait till Joe came. But Trip’s strength was not equal to 
the effort. She pulled herself up one step, then another. 
The steps were wide apart, and she had not the strength to 
draw herself up many. She got, perhaps, half way up, and 
then fell on the stair, fell sitting on one step with her band- 
aged head on another, and her bleeding feet on a still lower 
step. Then all her power left her. She tried to lift her- 
self to her feet, but could not. She could not reach and 
grasp the rail; she simk again. 

As her head rested on the step, the smell of the flour 
came into her nose, from the white dust on it, and it 
brought a dim, faint sense of pleasure to her. She had her 
face turned to the sky, and saw the clouds drive by; now a 
star appeared, then went out, then sparkled again. Even 
so her senses seemed to come and go, her consciousness to 
drift away and then become intensely clear. She could not 


LITTLE TU^PEE-mr. 


call, but she pulled her whistle from her bosom, where it 
hung since on that terrible night she suspended it there, 
and put it to her lips, and tried to blow a summons on it. 
She had forgotten that it was split and voiceless; she had 
the end between her lips blowing, and the string looped 
round her hand, and even the effort to blow was too severe 
for her, for, instead of blowing a call, she blew her remain- 
ing consciousness momentarily away. Only momentarily. 
In another moment she was caught and lifted, and held 
fast in strong arms, once again, as long before after that 
flight on the mill- wings, and she heard a voice: 

‘‘ I knew it! I knew it! She has come to me. Oh, lit- 
tle Tuppenny! Little Tuppenny !^^ 

When Trip returned to her senses, after a long lapse into 
darkness, she was in the miller^s cottage, in the arm-chair 
by the Are, without her cloak, in the battered pink dress, 
that seemed fresh dyed in the rosy glow of the hearth-flre 
that fell over it. 

Mrs. Western was standing by her; Joe was kneeling, 
raking the coals together, and looking into her face. 

She could not speak, but the widow gave her warm cor- 
dials made from Joe^s honey, sweet with the fragrance of 
the beans. 

Joe knew even more than did Trip. He knew the real 
name of the fellow who had come to stay about Eingwood. 
His name was Paice, but he went by many an alias — 
Jameson, Davenant, Spencer, Jeffries. He was well known 
to the police, who, however, had been hitherto unable to 
take him. Joe knew, also, what Trip did not, that he was 
already married, and had a wife and children living in 
Manchester. Consequently, the marriage in Eingwood 
Church with Trip was invalid. 

From the moment that the burglary had been discovered 
Joe rushed to the true conclusion. 

My mind all along mistrusted that man. I knew Beau- 


f 


LITTLE TUVeKKY. 


97 


fort was a swell mobsman sent down to learn the ways about 
the House. Poor Trip! Trip will return. 

Then every night he worked in the mill, and had his 
light in the flour-chamber. 

Eedfern was dismissed. 

She^ll have no home to come to; she^ll return and find 
her home empty. SheT come to the old mill, I know she 
will, and 1^11 be ready to receive her.^^ 

He was right; she had come as a final refuge to the dear 
old windmill, and the strong arms had caught her to hold 
her fast, and not let her go again. 

^^Trip!^^ said Joe, Pm off now. You shall remain 
with mother. The man will mind the mill. 1^11 follow ' 
that scoundrel Beaufort, or Paice, or whatever he calls 
himself, if it be round the world. He shall not escape me.^^ 
Then Trip put out her hand and grasped Joe^s arm. 

Joe, dear friend/^ she said, and her voice went straight 
to his heart, as did the look out of her sunken eyes, Joe, 
leave him alone. He wronged me, not you. I forgive him 
for this — that he has brought me down out of my folly and 
pride! Joe! It was my own self which was my worst 
enemy — not he; no, not he. If I had not been vain and 
giddy I should never have — have cast away a jewel to get a 
sham. She suddenly dragged the diamond ring (value, 
according to Mr. Beaufort, a hundred and fifty pounds) and 
threw it into the fire. I — I only am to blame. 

Then J oe took the hand, and, holding it in both of his, 
said, in earnest tones, still kneeling on one knee, with the 
rosy glow of the fire shining over him and her. 

Oh, little Tuppenny — 

bad penny — an utterly bad penny that has come 
back,^^ said she sadly. 

Hot soF^ he spoke with a shout, and sprung to his 
feet. Ho, not so! A battered Tuppenny, sore defaced, 
that has come back to the proper mint, to be melted, and 
milled, and molded again. Come, throw away the old 


98 


LITTLE TXJ’PEKNY. 


broken, split whistle. I always said I would come to you 
when you needed me without whistling, and now — now I 
will ever be beside you, and you will never need to whistle 
or call. Is it not so 

‘‘ Be more quiet, Joe,^^saidhis mother. She has fainted 
again, with overmuch joy.^^ 

Mother he would not be quiet. He put his arms 
under Trip and lifted her out of the chair, held her aloft, 
then close to his heart. Mother! the little Tuppenny cf 
brass is come back to be minted in gold! I can not help 
myself; I must shout, and sing, and talk, and laugh. 


THE END. 


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ALPHABETICAL LIST. 


802 Abbot, The. Sequel to “ The 
Monastery.” By Sir Walter 

Scott 

788 Absentee, The. An Irish Story. 

By Maria Edgeworth 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 
388 Addie’s Husband ; or. Through 
Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “ Love or Lands?”. 

5 Admiral's Ward, The. By Mrs. 
A.l0XS(Hcl0P 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 
500 Adrian Vidal. By W'. E. Norris 
477 Affinities. A Romance of To- 
day. By Mrs. Campbell-Praed 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Fen- 
imore Cooper 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “ Ouida” 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 

Half 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond Half 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 
14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The 

Duchess ” " 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 

636 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st half 

636 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 2d half 

650 Alice; or. The Mysteries. (A Se- 
quel to “ Ernest Maltravers.”) 

By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. By Lewis Carroll. With 
forty -two illustrations by 

John Tenniel 

97 All in a Garden Fair. By Wal- 
ter Besant 

484 .Although He Was a Lord, and 
Other Tales. Mrs, Forrester. 


47 

253 

447 

176 

403 

648 

263 

154 

200 

750 

750 

93 

395 

532 

247 

224 

347 

541 

560 

540 

352 

564 

528 

192 

287 


10 


Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oli- 
phant 20 

Amazon, The. By Carl Vosmaer 10 
American Notes. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

An April Day. By Philippa Prit- 

tie Jephson 10 

An English Squire. By C. R. 

Coleridge 20 

Angel of the Bells, The. By F. 

Du Boisgobey 20 

An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

Annan Water. By Robert Buch- 
anan 20 

An Old Man’s Love. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 1st half 20 
An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 2d half 20 
Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 
raphy 20 

Archipelago on Fire, The. By 

Jules Verne 10 

Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 
Armourer’s Prentices, The. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

Arundel Motto, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince ' 20 

“ As it Fell Upon a Day.” By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

Asphodel. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don 20 

At a High Price. By E. Werner 20 
At Any Cost. By Edw. Garrett 10' 
At Bay. By Mrs. Alexander. . . 10 
At His Gates. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

Warden 10 

At War With Herself. By Char 
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780 Autobiofjraphy of Benjamin 
Franklin, The 10 

228 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 
(Translated from the French 
of Fortune Du Boisgobey.) 

First half 20 

828 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 
(Translated from the French 
of Fortune Du Boisgobey.) 

Second half 20 

241 Baby’s Grandmother, The. By 

L. B. AValford 10 

342 Baby, The. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 

443 Baciielor of the Albany, The. . . 10 
683 Bachelor Vicar of Newforth, 

The. By Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe 20 
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Mary Cecil Hay 10 

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99 Barbara’s History, By Amelia 

B. Edwards " 20 

234 Barbara; or. Splendid Miser3^ 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

653 Barren Title, A. T. W. Speight 10 
731 Bayou Bride, The. By Mrs. 

Maiy E. Bryan 20 

794 Beaton’s Bargain. By Mrs. Al- 
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717 Beau Tancrede; or, the Mar- 
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Dumas ... 20 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. By “ The 

Duchess” lO 

86 Belinda, By Rhoda Broughton 20 
593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. 

Riddell 20 

581 Betrothed, The. (I Promessi 

Sposi,) Alessandro Manzoni. 20 
620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea. By M. Linskill 20 
466 Between Two Loves. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

476 Between Two Sins. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

” Dora 'Phorne 10 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 

the author of “A Golden Bar ” 10 

?98 Beyond Pardon 20 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 
geant 10 

553 Birds of Prey. By Miss M. E, 

Braddon 20 

820 Bit of Human Nature, A. By 
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411 

430 

353 

302 

106 

106 

429 

394 

299 

362 

259 

300 


642 

54 


317 

58 

739 

240 

602 

186 

149 

555 

711 

502 

364 

770 

746 

419 

783 




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Walter Scott 20 

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Si me 10 

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of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

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By Sir Walter Scott 20 

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Sequel to “ The (jount of 
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of ” Dora Thorne ” 20 

B}’^ Mead and Stream. By Chas. 

Gibbon 20 

By the Gate of the Sea. By D. 
Christie Murray 10 

Caged Lion, The. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 
Camiola: A Girl With a Fortune. 

By Justin McCarthy 20 

Canon’s Ward, The. By' James 

Payn 20 

Captain’s Daughter, The. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

Cara Roma. By Miss Grant. ... 20 
Cardinal Sin, A. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of ‘‘ Called 

Back” 20 

Carriston's Gift. By Hugh 
Conway', author of “Called 

Back” 10 

Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 10 

Castle of Otranto, The. By 

Horace Walpole 10 

Cavalry Life; or. Sketches and 
Stories in Barracks and Out. 

By J. S. Winter 20 

Chainbearer, The; or. The Lit- 
tlepage Manuscripts. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

Chantry House. By Charlotte 
M. Yonge. SO 


THE SEASIDE' LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


?90 Chaplet of Pearls, The; or, The 
White and Black Kibaninonr. 
Charlotte M. You^e. 1st half 
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White and Black Bibaumoiit. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 
212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

First half 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

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554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (A Se- 
quel to “ Birds of Prey.”) By 

Miss M. E, Braddon 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. 

Rowson 

588 Cherry. By the author of “A 

Great Mistake” 

713 “ Cherry Ripe.” By Helen B. 

Mathers 

719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 

By Lord Byron 

676 Child’s History of England, A. 

By Charles Dickens 

657 Christmas Angel. By B. L. Ear- 

jeon 

631 Cnristowell. By R. D. Blackmore 
607 Chronicles of the Canongate, 
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Walter Scott 

^532 Clara Vaughan. By R. D. Black- 

more 

33 Clique of Gold, The. By Emile 

Gaboriau 

782 Closed Door, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 

782 Closed Doo- The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 

499 Cloven Foot, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. By 

Lucas Malet. . .* 

769 Cometh Up as a Flower. By 

Rhoda Broughton 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By Helen 

B. Mathers 

523 Consequences of a Duel, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 

547 Coquette’s Conquest, A. By 

Basil 

104 Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 
gobey. 1st half 

104 Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 
gobey. 2d half 

598 Corinna. By “Rita” 

262 Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part I 
262 Count of Monte-Cristo. The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part II 
687 Country Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

590 Courting of Mary Smith, The. 

By F. W. Robinson 

787 Court Royal. A Story of Cross 
Currents. By S. Baring-Gould 

258 Cousins. ByL. B. Walford 

649 Cradle and Spade. By William 
Sime 


Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. First half 20 

Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. Second half 20 

Cricket on the Hearth, The. 

By Charles Dickens 10 

Crime of Christmas Day, The. 

By the author of “ My Ducats 

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Crimson Stain, A. By Annie 

Bradshaw 10 

Cripps, the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 20 

Curly: An Actor’s Story. By 
John Coleman. Illustrated. 10 
Cut by the County; or, Grace 
Darnel. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don. 10 

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Eliot. First half 20 

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Eliot. Second half 20 

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Dark House, The: A Knot Un- 
raveled. By G. Mauville Fenn 10 
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iam Black 20 

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Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “ Called 

Back ” 10 

David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. II 20 

Days of My Life. The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

Dead Heart, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

Dead Man’s Secret, The ; or, The 
Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
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Dead Men ’s Shoes. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Deldee; or. The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

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Diana Carew ; or. For a Wom- 
an's Sake. By Mrs. Forrester 20 
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George Meredith 10 

Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

Part 1 20 

Diavola: or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

Part II 20 

Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 
Fifteen. By Jules Verne — 20 
Dick’s Sweetheart. By “ The 

Duchess ” 20 

Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 
drew Lang 10 

Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 
jendie 10 


630 

20 630 

108 

20 

376 

20 

706 

20 629 

504 

20 

544 

10 

10 

446 

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609 

10 

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251 

10 

20 

22 

10 

22 

20 

527 

20 

305 

20 

20 374 

20 

567 

20 

286 

20 

115 

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744 

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350 

20 

10 478 

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478 

20 

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20 486 

20 536 

20 

185 

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TEE SEASIDE L IDE ARY. —Pocket Edition. 


594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Betham- 

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108 Doctor Marigold. By Charles 

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721 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester. . . 20 
107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

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282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 
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671 Don Gesualdo. By“Ouida.”.. 10 
779 Doom ! An Atlantic Episode. 

By Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 
51 Dora Thorne. By Charlotte M. 


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284 Doris. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

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678 Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

665 Dove in the Eagle’s Nest, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

585 Drawn Game, A. By Basil 20 

151 Ducie Diamonds, The. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 
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Braddon 10 


Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood : 20 

685 England under Gladstone. 1880 
—1885. By Justin H. McCar- 
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521 Entangled. By E. Fairfax 

Byrrne 20 

625 Erema; or, My Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmore 20 

118 Eric Dering. “The Duchess” 10 
96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Bal- 

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90 Ernest Maltravers. By Sir E. Bul- 

wer Lytton 20 

786 Ethel Mildmay’s Follies. By 
author of “ Petite’s Romance ” 20 
162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bulwer 

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764 Evil Genius, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte 
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Thorne ” 20 

62 Executor, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. 
Mathers 10 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

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638 Fair Country Maid, A. By E. 

Fairfax Byrrne 20 

861 Fair Maid, A. By F. W. Robin- 
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417 Fair Maid of Perth, The; or, 

St. Valentine’s Day. By Sir 

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626 Fair Mystery, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne 20 

727 li’air Women. B.y Mrs. Forrester 20 
30 Faith and Unfaith. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

543 Family Affair, A. By Hugh 
Conway, author of “ Called 

Back” 20 

338 Family Difficulty, The. By Sa- 
rah Doiidney 10 

690 Far From the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy 20 

798 Fashion of this World, The. By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

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246 Fatal Dower, A. By the Author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” .... 10 
299 Fatal Lilies, The. By Charlotte 
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548 Fatal Marriage, A. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 10 

693 Felix Holt, the Radical. By 

George Eliot 20 

542 Fenton’s Quest. By Miss M. E. 

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7 File No. 113. By Emile Gabo- 

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575 Finger of Fate, The. By Cap- 
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95 Fire Brigade, The. By R. M. 

Ballantyne 10 

674 First Person Singular. By Da- 
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199 Fisher Village, The. By Anne 

Beale 10 

579 Flower of Doom, The, and 
Other Stories. By M. Betham- 

Ed wards 10 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 
gle for Love. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

156 “For a Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

173 Foreigners, The. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 
608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carej’^ 20 

712 For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 

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586 “ For Percival.” By Margaret 

Veley 20 

171 Fortune’s Wheel. By “The 

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468 Fortunes, Good and Bad, of a 
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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Pocket Edition, 


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805 Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
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226 Friendship. By “Ouida” 

288 From Oloom to Sunlight. By 
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of “Dora Thorne” 

732 From Olympus to Hades. By 

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348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 
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285 Gambler’s Wife, The 

772 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 
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549 George Caulfield’s Journey. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 

365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 
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331 Gerald. By Meaner C. Price.. 
208 Ghost of Charlotte Cray, The, 
and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 

613 Ghost’s Touch, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 

225 Giant’s Robe, The. By F. Anstey 
300 Gilded Sin, A. By Cliarlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

508 Girl at the Gate, The. By 

Wilkie Collins 

644 Girton Girl, A. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 

140 Glorious Fortune, A. By Wal- 

647 Goblin Gold. By May Crom- 

melin 

450 Godfrey Helstone. By Georgi- 

ana M. Craik 

153 Golden Calf, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

306 Golden Dawn, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 

666 Golden Flood, The. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior.. 
172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 
292 Golden Heart, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 

667 Golden Lion of Granpere, The. 

By Anthony Trollope 

758 “Good-bye, Sweetheart!” By 

Rhoda Broughton 

856 Good Hater, A. By Frederick 

Boyle 

801 Good-Natured Man, The. By 

Oliver Goldsmith 

710 Greatest Heiress in England, 

The. By Mrs. Oliphant 

489 Great Expectations. By Charles 
Dickens 


Great Heiress, A : A Fortune in 
Seven Checks. By R. E. Fran- 
cillon 10 

Great Mistake, A. By the author 

of “Cherry” 20 

Great Treason, A. By Mary 

Hoppus 30 

Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 1st half 20 
Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 2d half 20 
Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By Wm. Black 20 

Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 

By Charles Reade 20 

Griselda. By the author of “ A 
Woman’s Love-Story” 20 

Haco the Dreamer. By William 

Sime 10 

Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover 20 
Hard Times. B.y Chas. Dickens 10 
Hari'y Heathcote of Gangoil. By 

Anthony Trollope 10 

Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever .* 20 

Harry Muir. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
Haunted Chamber, The. By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

Haunted Man, The. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

Hazel Kirke. By Marie Walsh 20 
Headsman, The; or. The Ab- 
baye des Vignerons. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

Healey. By Jessie Fothergill. 20 
Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

Heart of Jane Warner, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

Heart of Mid-Lothian, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 
Deuce. By David Christie 

Murray 20 

Heiress of Hilldrop, The; or. 
The Romance of a Young 
Girl. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 
Heir Presumptive, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 
Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 10 

Henrietta’s Wish; or. Domi- 
neering. By Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tvtler 10 

Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

Her Mother’s Sin. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

Hidden Perils. Mary Cecil Hay 10 
Hidden Sin, The. A Novel 20 


135 

10 

244 

20 

170 

20 

751 

20 

20 751 

138 

10 

231 

20 

677 

20 

20 597 

20 668 

10 663 

84 

622 

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20 191 

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10 785 

10 169 

20 

533 

385 

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10 572 

167 

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444 

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391 

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695 

20 

20 741 

10 

689 

10 

20 513 

10 535 

20 

160 

20 

576 

20 

10 19 

20 

196 

20 518 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.- ’^■Pocket Edition. 


297 Her Marriage Vow ; or, Hilary’s 
Folly. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
autlior of * * Dora Tiioriie ” . . . . 10 
294 Hilda. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 
658 History of a Week, The. By 

Mrs. L. B. Walford 10 

165 History of Henry Esmond, The. 

By William 31. Thackeray. . . 20 
461 His Wedded ^ViCe. By author 
of “ A Fatal Dower ” 20 

378 Homeward Bound; or, The 

Chase. By J. F. Cooper 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 


800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 
800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 
552 Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 


M. E. Braddon 20 

600 Houp-La. By John Strange 

Winter. (Illustrated) 10 

748 Hurrish : A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 2C 

703 House Divided Against Itself, 

A. By Mrs. Oli pliant 20 

248 House on the Marsh, The. By 

F. Warden 10 

351 House on the Moor, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

481 House That Jack Built, The. 

By Alison 10 

754 How to be Happy Though Mar- 
ried. By a Graduate in the 

University of Matrimony 20 

198 Husband’s Story, A 10 

389 Ichabod. A Portrait. By Bertha 

Thomas 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

807 If Love Be Love. D. Cecil Gibbs 20 
715 1 Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

762 Impressions of Theophrastus 
Such. By George Eliot 10 

303 Ingledew House. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme. author of ” Dora 

Thorne” 10 

796 In a Grass Couniiy. By Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron 20 

304 In Cujud’s Net. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 
324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

672 In Maremma. By Ouida.” 1st 

half 20 

672 In 31aremma. By “ Ouida.” 2d 

half 20 

604 Innocent; A Tale of Modern 
Life. By 31rs. Oliphant. First 
Half 20 


604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond Half 20 

577 In Peril and Privation. By 

James Payn 10 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 
Black Horse) Dragoons. By 

J. S. Winter 10 

759 In Shallow Waters. By Annie 

Armitt 20 

39 In Silk A ttire. By William Black 20 
738 In the Golden Days. By Edna 

Lyall 20 

682 In the Middle Watch. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

452 In the West Countrie. By May 

Crommelin 20 

383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 
ilton Ai’dd 10 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

233 “ I Say No;” or, The Love-Let- 
ter Answered. By Wilkie Col- 
lins .* 20 

235 “ It is Never Too Lateto3Iend.” 

By Charles Reade 20 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott. 20 

534 Jack. By Alphonse Daudet 20 

752 Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 

By Juliana Horatio Ewing. . . 10 
416 Jack Tier ; or. The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 1st half 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 2d half 20 

519 Raines Gordon's Wife, A Novel 20 
15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bronte 20 
728 Janet’s Repentance. By Geoi ge 

Eliot 10 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 20 

767 Joan. By Rhoda Broughton. . 20 

357 John. By 3Irs. Oliphant 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

Max O'Rell 10 

289 John Bull's Neighbor in Her 
True IJght. By a “Brutal 

Saxon” 10 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. By 

Miss 31ulock 20 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

694 John Maidment. By Julian 

Sturgis 20 

570 John 3Iarchmont’s Legacy. By 

Miss 31. E. Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard s Daughter. 

By 31iss 31. E. Braddon 20 

619 Joy; or. The Ligiit of C(»ld- 
Home Ford. By May Crom- 
melin 20 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 
Affairs and Other Advent- 
ures. By William Black 20 

332 Judith Wynne. By author of 

“ Lady Lovelace ” 20 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. -Pocket Edition. 


561 Just As I Am : or, A Living Lie. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

60 ^ King Arthur. Not a Love Story. 

By Miss Mu lock 20 

753 King Solomon’s Mines. By H. 

Rider Hae'gard 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black.. 20 
435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. By George Tailor. . . 20 

733 Lady Branksmere. By “The 

Duchess ” 20 

35 Lady Aud ley’s Secret. By Miss 

j\I. E. Braddon 20 

219 Lady Clare; or. The Master of 
the Forges From the French 

of Georges Ohnet 10 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret. By Char- 
lotte M. Bi-aeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The Mi- 

ser’s Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 20 

305 Lady Gwendoline’s Dream. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

506 Lady Lovelace. By the author 

of “Judith Wynne” 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

161 Lady of Lyons, The. Founded 
on the Play of that title by 

Lord Lytton 10 

497 Lady’s Mile, The. By Miss M. 

E.’ Braddon 20 

652 Lady With the Rubies, The. By 
E. Marlitt 20 

269 Lancaster s Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

699 Lancelot Ward, M.P. By George 

Temple 10 

32 Land Leaguers, The. By An- 
thony Trollope 20 

684 Jjast Days at Apswich 10 

40 Last Days of Pompeii, The. By 
Buhver Lytton 20 


130 Last of the Barons, The, By Sir 

E. Bulwer Lytton. 1st half.. 20 
130 Last of the Barons, The. By Sir 

E. Bulwer Lytton. 2d half.. 20 
60 Last of the Mohicans, The. By 

J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

267 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls' 
Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 20 

455 Lazarus in London. By F. W. 

Robinson 20 

886 Led Astray ; or, “ La Petite 

Comtesse.” Octave Feuillet. 10 
858 Legend of Montrose, A. By Sir 

Walter Scott 

164 Leila;or, The Siege of Grenada. 

By Bulwer Lytton 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 

662 Lewis Arundel; or. The Rail- 
road of Life. By Frank E. 
Smedley 


437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
(!huzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin , 

Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 2fl 

774 Life and Travels of Mungo 

Park, The , 10 

698 Life’s Atonement, A. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss. By “ Rita ”. 20 

307 Like no Other Love. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 

402 Lilliesleaf: or, Passages in the 
Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer 
of Boston. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Fi rst h al f 20 

94 Little Dori it. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

279 Little Goldie : A Story of Wom- 
an’s Love. By Mrs. Sumner 

Hayden 20 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 
179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

45 Little Pilgrim, A. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant 10 

272 Little Savage, The. By Captain 

Marryat 10 

111 Little School -master Mark, The. 

By J. H. Shorthouse 10 

804 Living or Dead. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back ” 20 
797 Look Before You Leap. By 

IMrs Alexander 20 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

749 Lord Vanecou I t’s Daughter. By 

Mabel Collins 20 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. First half 29 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. Second half 20 

473 Lost Son, A. By Mary Linskill. 10 
354 Lottery of Life, The. A Story 
of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. Bv John Broughfun .. 20 
453 Lottery Ticket, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

479 Louisa. By Katharine S. Mac- 

quoid 20 

742 Love and Life. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

273 Love and Mirage; or. The Wait- 

ing on an Island. By M. 

Betham-Ed wards. . 10 

232 Love and Money; or, A Peril- 
ous Secret. By Chas. Reade. 10 
146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 
Stories. By Walter Besant 
and James Rice 1C 


20 
10 
20 

20 
CD , 


THE SEASIDE LIBRABT— Pocket Edition. 


306 Love for a Day. By Charlotte 
M. Braeine, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

313 Lover’s Creed, The. By Mrs. 

Cashel -Hoey 

673 Love’s Harvest. B. L. Farjeon 
175 Love’s Random Shot. By Wilkie 

Collins 

757 Love’s Martyr. By Laurence 

Alma Tadema 

291 Love’s Warfare. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford. By 

“The Duchess ” 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 

Mrs. J. H. Needed 

589 Luck of the Darrells, The. By 
James Pay n 

370 Lucy Crof ton. By Mrs. Oliphant 

44 Macleod of Dare. Wm. Black. 
526 Madame De Presnel. By E. 

Frances Poynter 

345 Madam. By Mi-s. Oliphant 

78 Madcap Violet. By Wm. Black 
510 Mad Love, A. By the author of 

“ Lover and Lord ” 

69 Madolin’s Lover. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 

341 Madolin Rivers; or, The Little 
Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 

377 Magdalen Hepburn ; A Story of 
the Scottish Reformation. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 

449 Maiden All Forlorn, A, and Bar- 
bara. By “ The Duchess ”... 
64 Maiden Fair, A. Charles Gibbon 
121 Maid of Athens. By Justin 

McCarthy 

«33 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 1st half 

633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d half 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 

803 Major Frank. By A. L. G. Bos- 

boom-Toussaint 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. First half 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. Second half 

277 Man of His Word, A. By W. 

E. Norris 

688 Man of Honor, A. By John 

Strange Winter. Illustrated. 
217 Man She Cared For, The. By 

F. W. Robinson 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

755 Margery Daw. A Novel 

451 Market Harborongh, and Inside 
the Bar. G. J. Whyte-Melville 
773 Mark of Cain, The. By Andrew 

Lang 

834 Marriage of Convenience, A. 
By Harriett Jay 


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480 Married in Haste. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddson 20 

615 Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

646 Master of the Mine, The. By 

Robert Buchanan 20 


578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

VeAe. (Illustrated.) Parti. 10 
578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Part II 10 
578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Part III 10 
398 Matt; A Tale of a Caravan. 


By Robert Buchanan 10 

723 Mauleverer’s Millions. By T. 

WemyssReid 20 

330 May Blossom : or. Between Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee .... 20 
791 Mayor of Caster bridge, The. By 

Thomas Hardy 20 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

771 Mental Struggle, A. By “The 

Duchess ” , ^ 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or, Tne 
V oyage to Cathay. By J. Fen- 

imore Cooper 20 

406 Merchant’s Clerk, The. By Sam- 
uel Warren 10 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

First half 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

Second half 20 

187 Blidnight Sun, The. ByFredrika 

Bremer 10 

763 Midshipman, The, Marmaduke 

]\lerry. Wm. H. G. Kingston. 20 
729 Mignon. By Mrs. Forrester... 20 

492 Mignon ; or. Booties’ Baby. By 

J. S. Winter. Illustrated 10 

692 Mikado, The. and other Comic 
Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 

Sullivan 20 

390 Mildred Trevanion. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 
“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

3 Mill on the Floss, The. By 

George Eliot 20 

157 Milly’sHero. By F. W. Robinson 20 

182 Millionaire, Thie 20 

205 Minister’s Wife, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 
369 MissBretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

245 Miss Tommy. By Miss Mulock 10 
315 Mistletoe Bough, The. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

618 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M, 

E. Braddon 26 


18) 


TB.E SEASIDE LlBnARY.— Pocket Edition, 


298 Mitchellnirst Place. By Marga- 
ret Veley 

684 Mixed Motives 

2 Molly Bavvn. “ The Duchess ” 
159 Moment of Madness, A, and 
Other Stories. By Florence 

Marryat 

125 Monarch of Mincing Lane, The. 

By William Black 

201 Monastery, The. By Sir Walter 

Scott 

119 Monica. By “The Duchess . 
431 Monikins, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. I 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. II 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. 

By “The Duchess” 

102 Moonstone, The. Wilkie Collins 
303 More Bitter than Death. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

By Queen Victoria 

116 Moths. By “Ouida” 

495 Mount Royal. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. By F. Mabel 

Robinson 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. 

G. Wight wick 

675 Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thacke- 
ray 

25 Mrs.Geoffrey. “ The Duchess ” 
606 IMrs. Hollyer. By Georgiana M. 

Craik 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

ByL. B. Walford 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

Rhoda Broughton 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 

635 Murder or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Mathers 

696 My Ducats and My Daughter. 
By the author of “ The Crime 

of Christmas Day” 

405 My Friends and 1. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 

726 My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester.. 
799 My Lady Green Sleeves. By 

Helen B. Mathers 

623 My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 

Collins 

724 My Lord and My Lady. By 

Mrs. Forrester 

504 My Poor Wife. By the author 

of “ Addie’s Husband ” 

433 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ”. 

871 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Parti 


Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part II 20 

Mysterious Hunter, The; or, 
The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 

Mystery of Allan Grale, The. By 

Isabella Fy vie Mayo 26 

Mystery of Edwin Drood, The. 

By Ciias. Dickens 20 

Mystery of Jessy Page, The, 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

Mystery of Orcival, The. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

Blystery, The. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 20 

My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

By Silvio Pellico 10 

My Wife’s Niece. By the author 
of “Doctor Edith Romney ”. 20 
My Young Alcides. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 20 

Nabob, The: A Story of Paris- 
ian Life and Manners. By Al- 
phonse Daudet 20 

Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton . 20 
Nell Haffenden. By Tighe Hop- 
kins 20 

New Abelard, The. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackera5^ Part 

I 20 

Newcomes, The. By William 
Blakepeace Thackeray. Part 

H.... 20 

New Magdalen, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

Noble Wife, A. John Saunders 20 
No Medium. By Annie Thomas 10 
Nora’s Love Test. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

North Country Maid, A. By 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 

No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Notichette Carey 20 

Not Wisely, But Too Well. By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths... 10 
No. XIII. ; or. The Story of the 
Lost Vestal. Emma Marshall 10 
Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 


Oak-Openings, The; or. The 
Bee-Hunter. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

Octoroon, The. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

Old Contrairy, and Otner Sto- 
ries. By Florence Marryat.. IQ 


271 

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662 

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574 

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290 

595 

168 

20 215 

10 765 

614 

20 766 

10 640 

20 

425 

10 

211 

10 

183 

20 


THE SEASIDE LIBB ARY. -Pocket Edition. 


10 Old Curiosity Shop, The. By 

Charles Dickeus 20 

410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant. 10 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 20 

645 Oliver’s Bride. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 
41 Oliver Twist. By Chas. Dickens 20 

605 Ombra. By Mrk Oliphant 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A. Tale of So- 
ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

143 One False, Both Fair. By John 

B. Harwobd 

342 One New Year’s Eve. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 
Minor. By Captain Fred Bur- 
naby 20 

498 Only a Clod. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

655 Open Door, The. By M»’s. Oli- 

phant.... 10 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 20 
12 Other People’s Money. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

639 Othmar. By “Ouida” 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. First hrlf 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 
by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 

530 Pair of Blue Eyes, A. By Thom- 
as Hardy 20 

B87 Parson o’ Dumford, The. By 

G. Manville Feim 20 

238 Pascarel. By “Ouida” 20 

517 Passive Crime, A, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 
809 Pathfinder, The. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

720 Paul Clifford. By Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton, Bart 20 

571 Paul Carew’s Story. By Alice 

Corny ns Carr 10 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories. 

By Hugh Conway, author of 

“Called Back” 10 

449 Peeress and Player. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

613 Percy and the Prophet. By 

Wilkie Collins 10 

776 Pere Goriot. By H. De Balzac 20 
314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill ... 20 
568 Perpetual Curate, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

133 Peter the Whaler. By William 

H. G. Kingston 10 

892 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

f*26 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 
for Men and Women. By 

George Macdonald 10 

56 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 


336 Philistia. By Cecil Pow^er 20 

069 Philosophy of Whist, The. By 

William Pole 20 

16 Phyllis. By “The Duchess”.. 20 
372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 
thor of “ His Wedded AVife ”. 10 
537 Piccadilly. Laureuce Oliphant 10 
24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 


Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. H 20 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 
Mud fog Papers, &c. By Chas. 
Dickens 20 

206 Picture, The, and Jack of All 

Trades. By Charles Reade. . . 10 
264 Pi4douche, a French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey... 10 
318 Pioneers, The ; or. The Sources 
of the Susquehanna. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

393 Pirate, The. By Sir Walter Scott 20 
329 Polish Jew, The. (Translated 
from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) By Erckmann- 

Chatrian 10 

325 Portent, The. By George Mac- 
donald 10 

6 Portia. By “The Duchess ”... 20 
655 Portrait, The. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 
558 Poverty Corner. By G. Manville 

Fenn 20 

310 Prairie, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

697 Pre^^ty Jailer, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half.*. 20 

697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

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475 Prima Donna’s Husband, The. 

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thony Trollope. First Half.. 20 
531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 
thony Trollope. Second Half 20 
624 Primus in ludis. By M. J. Col- 

quhoun 10 

249 “Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

556 Prince of Darkness, A. By F. 

Warden 20 

704 Prince Otto. Bj^ R. L. Steven- 
son 10 

355 Princess Dagomar of Poland, 

The. Heinrich Felbermann. 10 
228 Princess Napraxine. “Ouida” 20 
23 Pj-incess of Thule, A. By AVill- 

iam Black 20 

88 Privateersman, The. By Cap- 
tain Marryat 20 

321 Prodigals, The: And 3’heir In- 
heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant. 10 
144 Promises of Marriage. By Emile 

Gaboriau 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 


THE SEASIDE LlBRAllY.—Focket Edition, 


516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 
maine’s Divorce. By Char- 
lotte M, Braenie, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 

487 Put to tlie Test. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 
Charles Keade 


6S Queen Amonjfst Women, A. By 
Cliarlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 

591 Queen of Hearts, The. By Wil- 
kie Collins 

641 Rabbi’s Spell, The. By Stuart 

C. Ciimberland 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Troll- 
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661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 
tie Murray 

433 Rainy June. A. By “ Ouida”.. 
7(X) Ralph the Hoir. By Anthony 

Trollope. First half 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. Second half ... 

442 Ranthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes 

780 Rare Pale Margaret. By the au- 
thor of “ What’s His Offence?” 
827 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 
the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events. By Chas. Reade 
768 Red as a Ri »se is She. By Rhoda 

Brou^-hton 

881 Red Cardinal, The. By F'rances 

Elliot 

73 Redeemed by Love. By Char- 
lotte M Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 

89 Red Eric, The. By R. M. Ballan- 

tyne 

463 Redgauntlet. By Sir Walter 

Scott 

580 Red Route, The. By William 

Si me 

361 Red Rover, The. A Tale of the 
Sea. By J. Fen i more Cooper 
421 Redskins, The; or, Indian and 
Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 

427 Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., 
The. Formerly known as 
“Tommy Upmore.” By R. 

D. Black more 

237 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 

740 Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester 

875 Ride to Khiva, A. By Captain 
Fred Burnaby, of the Royal 

Horse Guards 

896 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 
Rosa Nouchette Carey 


Bomance of a Black Veil. By 
Charlotte IM. Braeme, author 

ot “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Romance of a Poor Young Man, 
The. By Octave Feuillet — 10 
Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid, The. By Thomas Hardy 10 

Romola. By (ieorge Eliot 20 

Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Francil- 

lon 20 

Rory O’Mcre. By Samuel Lover 20 
Rosai-y Folk, The. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

Rose and the Ring, The. By 
W. M. Thackeray. Illustrated 10 
Rose Distill’d, A. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 
Rose in Thorns, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 


Rossmoyne. By “ The Duchess ” 10 
Round the Galley Fire. By W'. 

Clark Russell 10 

Royal Highlanders, The; or. 

The Black Watch in Egypt. 

By James Grant 20 

R y and Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 

Roy’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- 

Melvilie 20 

Rupert Godwin. B}^ Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

Russians at the Gates of Herat, 


The. By Charles Marvin. ... 10 


Sacred Nugget, The. By B. L. 

Far jeon 20 

Sailor’s Sweetheart, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

St. Ronan's Well. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

Salem Chapel. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
Sam’s Sweetheart. By Helen 

B. Mathers 20 

Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 
Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 1st half 20 

Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 2d half 20 

Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 
F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half ... 20 
Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 
F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half. ... 20 
Sea Change, A. By Flora L. 

Shaw 20 

Sealed Lips. F. Du Boisgobey. 20 

Sea Lions, The; or. The Lost 
Sealers. By J. F. Cooper. . . 20 

Sea Queen, A. By W. Clark 

Russell 20 

Second Life, A. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

Second Thoughts. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

Secret Dispatch, The. By Janxes 
Grant 10 


190 

20 66 

20 139 

20 42 

360 

664 

193 

10 

670 

20 

119 

10 103 

296 

20 

20 129 

10 180 

20 566 

20 

736' 

20 409 

20 489 

457 

20 

10 

616 

20 

223 

10 

418 

20 177 

795 

10 

420 

20 

20 660 

20 660 

699 

20 699 

441 

82 

20 423 

85 

20 

20 490 

101 

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781 

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ai) 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRABY.—Poclcet Edition. 


887 Secret of the Cliffs, The. By 

Charlotte French 20 

607 Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 

651 “ Self or Bearer.” By Walter 

Besant 10 

474 Serapis. By George Ebers 20 

792 Set in Diamonds. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

548 Shadow in the Corner, The. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

445 Shadow of a Crime, The. By 

Hall Caine 20 

293 Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

iS Shandon Bells. By Win. Black 20 
141 She Loved Him! By Annie 

Thomas 10 

520 She's All the World to Me. By 

Hall Caine 10 

801 She Stoops to Conquer. By 

Oliver Goldsmith 10 

57 Shirley. By Charlotte Bront§. 20 

239 Signa. By “ Ouida ” 20 

707 Silas Marner: The Weaver of 

Raveloe. By George Eliot. . . 10 
539 Silvermead. By Jean Middle- 

mas 20 

681 Singer’s Story, A. By May 


XjctXJLCtli J-\/ 

252 Sinless Secret, A. By “ Rita ” 10 
283 Sin of a Lifetime, The. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

643 Sketch-book of Geoffrey Cray- 
on, Gent, The. By Washing- 
ton Irving 20 

456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People. By Charles Dick- 
ens 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and other 
Stories. By Hugh Conway, 
author of “ Called Back ”... 10 
491 Society in London. By a For- 
eign Resident 10 

505 Society of London, The. By 

Count Paul Vasili 10 

778 Society’s Verdict. By the au- 
thor of “ My Marriage ” 20 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. C. 

J. Eiloart 20 

412 Some One Else. By B. M. Croker 20 
194 “So Near, and Yet So Far!” 

By Alison 10 

368 Southern Star, The ; or, The Dia- 
mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 
63 Spy, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

281 Squire’s Legacy, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

158 Starling, The. By Norman 

Macleod, D.D 10 

436 Stella. By Fanny Lewald ..... 20 
B02 Stern Chase, A. By Mrs.Cashei- 
Hoey 20 


145 “ Storm-Beaten :” God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan. 20; 
673 Story of a Sin. By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

610 Story of Dorothy Grape, The, ^ 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 ■ 

53 Story of Ida, The. By Francesca 10 ■ 
50 Strange Adventures of a Phae- 
ton, The. By William Black. 20 
756 Strange Adventures of Captain 


Dangerous, The. By George 1 

Augustus Sala 20 j 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and \ 
Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis j 

Stevenson 10 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 . 

83 Strange Story, A. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton 20 

592 Strange Voyage, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

511 Strange World, A. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

550 Struck Down. By Hawley Smart 10 
467 Struggle for a Ring, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

71 Struggle for Fame, A. By Mrs. 

J. H. Riddell 20 

222 Sun-Maid, The. By Miss Grant 20 
21 Sunrise : A Story of These Times 

By Wm. Black 20 

250 Sunshine and Roses ; or, Diana’s 
Discipline. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

277 Surgeon’s Daughters, The. By 

Mrs. Henry Wood 10 

363 Surgeon’s Daughter, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 
Rodney’s Secret. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

559 Taken at the Flood. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

117 Tale of the Shore and Ocean, A. 

By William H. G. Kingston.. 20 
77 Tale of Two Cities, A. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

343 Talk of the Town, The. By 

James Payn 20 

213 Terrible Temptation, A. By 

Chas. Reade 20 

696 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss 

Jane Porter 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By 

William Black 20 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and 
Other Stories. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris 10 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James 
Payn 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAR Y. — Pocket Edition. 


184 Thirlby HalL By W. E. Norris 20 
148 Thorns and Oran^-Blossoms. 

By Charlotte M.Braenie, au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

275 Three Brides, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 10 

775 Three Clerks, The. By Anthony 

Trollope 20 

124 Three Feathers. By Wm. Black 20 
55 Three. Guardsmen, The. By 

Alexander Dumas 20 

382 Three Sisters; or. Sketches of 
a Highly Original Family. 

By Elsa D'Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 
789 Through the Looking-Glass, 
and What Alice Found There. 

By Lewis Carroll. With fifty 
illustrations by John Tenniel. 20 
471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 
485 Tinted Vapours. By J. Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

603 Tinted Venus, The. By F. Anstey 10 
120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 
Rugby. By Thomas Hughes. 20 
243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By 

Charles Lever. First half... 20 
243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By 

Charles Lever. Second half. 20 
557 To the Bitter End. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir... 10 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 

By Jules Verne 20 

75 Twenty Years After. By Alex- 
ander Dumas 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

Tighe Hopkins... 20 

349 Two Admirals, The. A Tale of 
the Sea. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

307 Two Kisses. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

784 Two Miss Flemings, The. By au- 
thor of “ What’s His Offence?” 20 
242 Two Orphans, The. By D’En- 

nery 10 

563 Two Sides of the Shield, The. 

By Charlotte M. Youge 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. 

By R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

407 Tyliiey Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 


137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 
541 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 
152 Uncommercial Traveler, The. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

J74 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge. 20 
654 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

By Mrs. Molesworth 10 

<60 Under a Shadow. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne 20 


276 Under the Lilies and Roses. 

By Florence Marryat (Mrs. 

Francis Lean) 10 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 10 

4 Under Two Flags. By“Ouida” 20 
340 Under Which King? By Comp- 
ton Reade 20 

718 Unfairly W’^on. By Mrs. Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

634 Unforeseen, The. By Alice 

O’Hanlon 20 

508 Unholy Wish, The. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

735 Until the Day Breaks. By 
Emily Spender 20 


482 Vagrant Wife, A. By F. Warden 20 
691 Valentine Strange. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 10 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. 

Thackeray 20 

426 Venus's Doves. By Ida Ash- 
worth Tfiylor 20 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles 

Reade 20 

59 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

Mary Ce<-il Hay 20 

583 Victoiw Deane. By Cecil Griffith 20 
545 Vida's* Story. By author of 

“ (Juilty Without Crime ” 10 

734 Viva. B\ Mrs. Forrester 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 

Beaconsfield. First half 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 
Beaconsfield. Second half. . . 20 
204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 
777 Voyages and Travels of Sir 
John Maundeville, Kt., The. . 10 


659 Waif of the “ Cynthia,” The. 

By Jules Verne 20 

9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras. 

By “Ouida” 20 

270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part 1 20 

270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part II 20 

621 Warden, The. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

266 Water-Babif'S, The. A Fairy 
Tale for a Land-Baby. By the 

Rev, Charles Kingsley 10 

512 Waters of Hercules, The 20 

112 Waters of Marah, The. By John 

Hill 20 

359 Water-Witch, The. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 
195 “ Way of the World, The.” By 
David Christie Murray 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY,— Pocket Ediiion, 


415 Ways of the Hour, The. B3' J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

844 “Wearing: of the Green, The.” 

By Basil •. 20 

312 Week in Killarney, A ; or, Her 
Week’s Amusement. By 

“The Duchess” 10 

458 Week of Passion, A; or, The Di- 
lemma of Mr Georgre Barton 
the Younger. EclvvatdJenldns 20 
79 Wedded and Parted. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

628 Wedded Hands. By the author 

of “ My Lady’s Folly ” 20 

400 Wept of Wish-Ton -Wish, The. 

By J. Fenimoie Co )per 20 

637 What’s His Offence? A Novel. 20 
722 What’s Mine’s Mine. By George 

Macdonald 20 

679 Where Two Ways Meet. By 

Sarah Doudney 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

236 Which Shall It Be? By Mrs. 

A 0(| 

627 White Heather.* ’By Wm.' Black 20 
70 White Wings: A Yachting Ko- 
mance. By William Black . . 10 
335 White Witch, The. A Novel. . . 20 
38 Widow Lerouge, The. By Emile 

Gahoriau 20 

76 Wife in Name Only. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

254 Wife’s Secret, The, and Fair 
but False. By Charlotte M. 
Brae .Tie, author of “Dora 

Thorne”.? 10 

323 Willful Maid. A 20 

761 WiU Weatherhelm. By William 

H. G. Kingston 20 

373 Wing-and-Wing. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

163 Winifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 
rell : 20 

472 Wise Women of Inverness, 
The. By Wm. Black 10 


134 Witching Hour, The, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess ”. 10 
432 Witch’s Head, The. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. 

B.y Emile Gahoriau 20 

358 Within the Clasp. B^” J. Ber- 
wick Harwood: 20 

809 Witness My Hand. By the au- 
thor of “ Lady Gwendolen’s 

Tryst” 10 

98 W’^oman-Hater, A. B.y Charles 

Reade 20 

705 Woman I Loyed, The, and the 
Womnn Who Loyed Me. By 

Isa Blagden 10 

701 Woman in White. The. Wilkie 

Collins. Illustrated. 1st half 20 
701 W^oman in W^hite, The. Wilkie 

Collins. Illustrated. 2d half 20 

322 W^oman’s Love-Story, A 10 

459 Woman’s Temptation, A. Bj’ 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora TJiorne ” 20 

295 Woman’s War, A. B.y Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

17 Wooing O’t, The. B3" Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

Knoll. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
434 Wyllard’s Weird. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 


1 Yolande. By W^illiam Black.. 20 
709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 


myra. By William W^are. 

First half 20 

709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 
myra. By William Ware. 

Second half 10 

428 Z6ro: A Story of Monte-Carlo. 

By Mrs. Campbell-Praed 10 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or. The 
Steel Gauntlets. By F. Du 
Boisgobey. 20 


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P.O.Box 3751. 17 to 37’ Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


EEALY-Beautifully Bouncl in Oloth-PBIOE 50 CENTS. 


A NEW PEOPLE^S EDITION 

OF THAT MOST DELIGHTFUL OF CHILDREN’S STORIES, 

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. 

By LEWIS CARROLL, 

Author of Through the Looking-Glass,” etc. 

With Forty-two Beautiful Illustrations by John TennieL 

The most delicious and taking: nonsense for children ever written. A 
book to be read by all mothers to their little ones. It makes them danc« 
with delight. Everybody enjoys the fun of this charming writer for the 
nui-sery 

THIS NEW PEOPLE’S EDITION, BOUND IN CLOTH, PRICE aO CENIV^ 
IS PRINTED IN LARGE, HANDSOME, READABLE TYPE, 
WITH ALL THE ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
OP’ THE EXPENSIVE ENGLISH EDITION. 


Sent 1>y Mail on Receipt oP50 CentSo 


Address GEORGE MUNRO, Miinro’s Publishing House, 

I?* O* Box 3751* \7 to 37 Vande water {Street, New llorf^ 


MUKRO^'S PUBLICATIONS. 


The Philosophy of Whist, 

AN ESSAY ON THE SCIENTIFIC AND INTELLECTUAL 
ASPECTS OF THE MODERN GAME. 


IN ‘TWO PARTS. 


Part I.~THE PHILOSOPHY OF WHIST PLAY. 

. Part II.— THE PHILOSOPHY OF WHIST PROBAB1LITIB& 


..Bu .WlLLIAM POLE, 

Mus. Doo. OxoN. 

Fellow of. the Royal Societies of I.ondon and Edinburgh; 

One of" the Examiners in the University op London; 
Knight OF the Japanese Imperial Order of the Rising Sun. 


Complete in ' Seaside Library (Pocket Edition), No. 669< 


PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 

. ' '.rUlCJE 20 CENTS. 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage prepaid, 
receipt of the price, 20 cents. ' Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vande water Street, New York. 


Munro’s Dialopes and Speakers. 


PRICE 10 CENTS EACH. 


These books embrace a series of Dialogues and Speeches, all new and 
original, and. are just what is needed to give spice and merriment to Social 
Parties, Home Entertainments, Debating Societies, School Recitations, Ama- 
teur Theatricals, etc. They contain Irish, German, Negro, Yankee, and, in 
fact, all kinds of Dialogues and Speeches. The following are the titles of the 
books: 

No. 1. The Funny Fellow’s Dialogues. 

No. 2. The Cleiiience and Donkey Dialogues. 

No. 3. Mrs. Smith’s Hoarders’ Dialogues. 

No. 4. Schoolboys* Comic Dialogues. 


No. 1. Vot 1 Know ’Bout Gruel Societies Speaker. 

No. 2. The John B. Go-o(l'Comic Speaker. 

No. 3. My Boy Vilhelm’s Speaker. 

The above titles express, in a slight degree, the contents of the bookij 
which are conceded to be the best series of mirth-provoking Speeches and 
Dialogues extant. Price 10 cents each. Address 


GEORGE MUNRO, Muniio’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751 17 to ISr Tande water Street. New Yorifi 


OLD SLEUTH LIBRARY. 

ISSUED 910r«XHUV. 


A Series of the Most Thrilling DetectiYe Stories Ever Puhlished 


NO. PRICE 

1 Old Sleuth the Detective 10c 

2 The King of the Detectives 10c 

3 Old Sleuth’s Triumph. Mrst half. 10c 

3 Old Sleuth’s Triumph. Second half. 10c 

4 Under a Million Disguises 10c 

5 Night Scenes in New York 10c 

6 Old Electricity, the Lightning Detective 10c 

7 The Shadow Detective. First half 10c 

7 The Shadow Detective. Second half. 10c 

8 Red-Light Will, the River Detective 10c 

9 Iron Burgess, the Government Detective 10c 

10 The Brigands of New York 10c 

11 Tracked by a Ventriloquist 10c 

12 The Twin Detectives 10c 

13 The French Detective lOc 

14 Billy Wayne, the St. Louis Detective 10c 

15 The New York Detective 10c 

16 O’Neil McDarragh, the Irish Detective 10c 

17 Old Sleuth in Harness Again 10c 

18 The Lady Detective 10c 

19 The Yankee Detective 10c 

20 The Fastest Boy in New York lOc 

21 Black Raven, the Georgia Detective 10c 

22 Night-Hawk, the Mounted Detective 10c 

23 The Gypsy Detective 10c 

24 The Mysteries and Miseries of New York 10c 

25 Old Terrible 10c 

26 The Smugglers of New York Bay 10c 

27 Manfred, the Magic Trick Detective 10c 

28 Mura, the Western Lady Detective 10c 

29 Monsieur Armand; or. The French Detective in New 

York 10c 

30 Lady Kate, the Dashing Female Detective. First half 10c 

30 Lady Kate, the Dashing Female Detective. Second half 10c 

31 Hamud, the Detective 10c 

32 The Giant Detective in France. First half 10c 

32 The Giant Detective in France. Second halj 10c 

33 The American Detective in Russia 10c 

34 The Dutch Detective 10c 


The Publisher will send any of the above works by mail, 
postage prepaid, on receipt of the price, 10 cents each. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

17 to 27 Vandewater St. and 45 to 53 Rose St., New York, 


P. O. Box 3751, 


MUKEp^S PUi^LIOATIOyS. 

LADY liRANKSMERE. 

Bv “THE DUCHESS.” 

PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 
Complete in Seaside Library (Pocket Edition), No. 733. 

PUICJE 30 CENTS. 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage prepaid, on 
receipt of the price, 20 cents, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MTJNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION), HO. 745. 

FOR ANOTHER’S SIN; 

OR, 

A STRUGGLE FOR LOVE. 

By GHARLOTTE M. BRAEME, 

Author of “ Dora Thome."''' 

PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 


PRICE 30 CENTS. 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage prepaid, on 
receipt of the price, 20 cents, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MTJNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3761. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York, 


HUNTERS’ YARNS. 


A COLLECTION OF 

Wild and Amusing Adventures : 

coMPRisma 

THRILLING BATTLES WITH INDIANS, TER- 
RIFIO ENCOUNTERS WITH SERPENTS 
AND ALLIGATORS, LONG SWIMS, 
RACES FOR LIFE, WONDERFUL 
PISH AND GHOST STORIES, 

Etc., Etc., Etc., 


As Related by Hunters to their Compan- 
ions Around the Camp-lire. 


This book is beyond question the best publication of its class that 
has yet appeared. It is a neat volume of one hundred pages, closely 
printed matter, all original, and embraces many side-splitting jokes and 
yarns of the ever-ready and sharp-witted trapper and hunter. 


PR1€£ »5 CEI^TS. 


For sale by all Newsdealers, or sent to any address on receipt of the price 
^25 cents, postage prepaid, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, 

Munro’s Publishing House, 

O. Box 87B1. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N 


1 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONa 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

ORDINARY EDITION. 


GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Pnbllsliinsr House* 

P, O. Box 8751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street^ N. Y. 


The following: works contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary Edition 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, 
on receipt of the price, by the publisher. Parties ordering by mail will pleas# 
order by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

80 Her Dearest Foe 20 

86 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

870 Ralph Wilton's Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward * 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

1984 Mrs. Ve^ker’s Courier Maid 10 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS 

18 A Princess of Thule • • 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton o .. . 10 

JCilmeriy. .**?.♦♦*•****•». 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. —Ordinary Ed'^don, 


63 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type)...o 10 

804 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

890 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

668 Green Pastures and Piccadilly l(f 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

V 025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRA.DDON^S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 20 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

89 The Levels of Arden * 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

287 Leighton Grange 10 

295 Lost for Love 20 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 2^ 

459 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

^ Rupert Godwin v. 10 

•f * 


/ibeaU 

^THE SEASIDE Ex K — Ordinary EaMon. 


481 Vixen i / ) 20 

482 The Cloven Foot H ^ 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter/'!. 20 

519 Weavers and Weft .! j 10 

550 Fenton’s Quest 20 

562 John Marchmont’s Legacy 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 Oeorge Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to- John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 20 

701 Barbara ; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 1(1 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

1469 Flower and Weed :. 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag 10 

1877 An Ishmaelite ; 20 

1915 The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 


CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 


3 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 26 

. The Prof 0 €sor.....»t»*-. 10 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Eu^vviA^n.^ 


829 Wutlierinj: Heights .A 10 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

1098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Lite 10 

552 Love at Saratoga,.. 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

907 Tiiree Sewing Girls 20 

>019 His First Love 20 

1133 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

3192 Vendetta; or, The Southern Heiress 20 

3 254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine ; or, Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story 

487 A Rogue’s Life, 10 


THE SEASIDE I IDE AUT. -Ordinary Efition, 

\ — ! 

588 Fallen Leaves. : . 20 

^54 Poor Miss Finch .\. . . . . . 20 

675 The Moonstone X. . . 20 

696 Jezebel’s Daughter ^ 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love .jt 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood /. 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? ] 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The BLck Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1 544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 

1770 Love’>? Random Shot 10 

1856 ‘‘I S^y Ho” 20 


J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer. 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water Witch 20 

590 Tiie Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wing-and-Wing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

lb69 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific. ... 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 Hard Times - o . . . * 10) 



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